[fic] VLD - All the Things Money Can't Buy

[lysapadin]

Title: All the Things Money Can't Buy
Characters/Pairings: Shiro and Keith, Allura
Summary: Keith just needs a little help with the rent; Shiro's just a little lonely. This is just a brief, mutually beneficial financial arrangement, that's all. Really.
Notes: This is my entry for the Sheith Big Bang. I will be editing in the art shortly. I was lucky enough to be paired with two artists, Mishy of Mishy Draws and Liz of the comic Adrastus. 45,618 words; adult for smut.

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All the Things Money Can't Buy

If he were the melodramatic type, he'd be asking himself how he'd gotten himself into this mess, but Keith is too pragmatic for that. He knows exactly how he got to this place: it's called having a short temper and no patience for bullshit, which make for a really bad combination with an asshole boss who never liked him to begin with, even before Keith had called him out for playing favorites with the other clerks.

So yeah, Keith knows exactly how he got himself into this mess: unemployed, with rent due in four days and a tuition payment due three days after that, and only sixty bucks in his checking account. He's spent all evening putting in applications anywhere he can think of, but it's January and no one is hiring in the post-holiday lull, so he doesn't have a lot of hope on that front.

He was already living close to the bone to start with, borrowing his textbooks from the library when he couldn't find them online, eating rice and beans and store-brand vitamin supplements, and damn it, he really shouldn't have mouthed off to that asshole.

Too late for common sense now, so Keith takes stock of his options, limited as they are, and directs his browser to the m4m section on Craigslist.

He's not the only one looking for a way to make some quick money; there are several postings from other guys who have shirtless shots of themselves next to invitations of varying levels of subtlety. Keith makes a face at them—but what the hell, it's not like he has much to lose. He peels out of his shirt and snaps the best pictures of himself he can manage before he starts shivering too much to hold his phone steady (the thermostat is set to sixty, which doesn't seem to keep the heating bills as low as all the thrift blogs insist it should), picks the best one out of the lot to upload, and spends the next half hour wrestling over what to put in his ad.

In the end he goes with the blunt approach—as blunt as he dares to be, since getting picked up for solicitation would ruin everything: "I'm cold, broke, and lonely, looking for someone to help me keep warm."

That will have to do, so he hits the button to submit the post, closes his ancient, creaky laptop once it goes through, and goes to bed to fret himself to sleep.

When he checks his email in the morning, there's a response. And that's where it all begins.

 
 

Things that seem reasonable in the small hours of the morning have a way of seeming much less so in the unforgiving light of day. Keith is already second-guessing himself over the whole Craigslist thing when his alarm goes off; opening up his inbox to find a string of emails that make his skin crawl just solidifies the fact that the whole thing was a terrible idea. Jesus. He realizes that he basically offered himself up to the highest bidder, but launching negotiations with a graphic description of what the other guy is planning on doing to him is a little much, isn't it? And the dick pics aren't that much better.

It's all enough to put him off his breakfast (and his coffee) and more than enough to persuade him that the whole thing is a terrible idea. He pulls up the posting while his coffee is still brewing and deletes it, along with all the gross emails. There has to be something else he can do to make rent—sell plasma, maybe?

He's googling for plasma centers in town when his inbox pings with a new message, with a subject line your post on CL.

Keith grimaces into his coffee and reaches for the delete button, but before he can push it, another message from the same sender pops up: never mind FWD: your post on CL.

That's enough to pique his interest, so he opens the second email. The message is brief, just a short, "Sorry, you took your post down, you can ignore this." Keith raises his eyebrows and scrolls down to the guy's original email: "Hi, I saw your post on Craigslist. Would you like to get coffee?"

Huh. Well, that's different. Keith stares at the message, not that there's much else to get out of it—looks like the guy's name is T. Shirogane, and he's got the good sense to use a personal email instead of a business address, which puts him up on a couple of the creeps who've emailed him.

The politeness and the coffee thing are probably just a blind—maybe T. Shirogane is a serial killer or something?—but on the other hand, the guy is paying enough attention to have noticed that Keith's taken his ad down.

He hits reply and starts typing before he makes the conscious decision: "I'm not kidding about being broke. Are you buying?" May as well set the tone of things from the start, and all that.

By the time he gets showered and dressed, there's a reply from T. Shirogane: "Sure, I can do that. What's a good time for you?" It's signed Shiro, which Keith notes in passing, and—huh. Is he really going to do this?

It kind of looks like he is, because he replies to tell Shiro he's got classes till four and to suggest the too-expensive-for-his-budget coffee shop on the edge of campus.

What the hell. It's only meeting for coffee, that's not a huge commitment, and it doesn't mean he has to go for anything else if Shiro turns out to be creepy after all.

With that settled, he loads up his bag for the day, bolts the last of his coffee, and heads out to catch the bus to campus.

He gets an apologetic email from Shiro by the time he gets on the bus that says he'll be working until five and won't be able to make it until six, which—Keith guesses that makes sense. He replies to say that six is fine and that he'll meet Shiro at Déjà Brew at six, and just like that, it's all set.

Maybe he ought to spend more time worrying about it than he does, but he's got back-to-back classes and a scholarship that rides on his GPA, so he's much more focused on the lectures and his notes than his plans for the evening. He sublimates any apprehension he might be experiencing while he reheats his lunch and works on his homework. Working his shift at the library is less helpful; it's still early enough in the semester that things aren't too busy, and shelving books isn't the kind of thing that requires a lot of thought. He ends up wondering what kind of guy answers a personal ad from someone basically offering sex for rent money. Could be a couple of different things, the way Keith figures it: maybe this Shiro guy is closeted and looking for some action, which, well, Keith can try not to judge, though he doesn't know how successful he'll be.

The other possibility is that the guy isn't able to find any action without paying for it. That… whatever. Keith will cross that bridge when he comes to it.

At least he gets lucky: one of the guys who works the evening shift calls in to say he can't make it, so the work-study supervisor lets Keith pick up part of the guy's shift. She'd have let him have the whole thing, in fact, if he hadn't already made plans for the night. She promises to let him know if any other extra shifts come up, too, so that's something. It's just too bad that the university caps work-study jobs at twenty-five hours a week. At least he manages to eke the full twenty-five hours out between the people who call in or just don't bother showing up.

And then it's time to head over to Déjà Brew to meet Shiro and see what happens next.

It's gotten colder since his shift started, even smells kind of like it might snow. Keith walks fast to keep himself warm and wonders, belatedly, how he's supposed to recognize this Shiro guy anyway. It wasn't like Shiro told him who to look for or anything. Great.

It turns out he doesn't need to worry about it. When he gets to the coffee shop, there's a guy leaning against the wall outside the door, both hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. He's staring at everyone who goes past on the sidewalk. When he catches sight of Keith, he frowns and squints before saying, tentative, "Are you Keith?"

At first Keith thinks the streetlights are just throwing strange shadows across the guy's face, but no, it's not the light. There's a band of darker skin, maybe a scar, crossing the guy's nose. Huh, he thinks, and says, "Yeah, that's me. Are you Shiro?"

The guy smiles and ducks his head, white hair falling across his eyes. "Yeah, that's me." He doesn't look like he ought to be old enough to have that color hair. "It's nice to meet you."

He offers Keith his hand, his left hand, which is weird and awkward because Keith has to juggle his backpack so he can shake it. "Yeah, you too, I guess." Okay, now what does he do?

Shiro gets them past the moment of uncertainty by jerking his shoulder. "Want to go inside and get out of the cold? I think I promised to buy you a coffee."

"Sure," Keith says, relieved. That's the small talk for the next few minutes sorted, anyway.

The inside of Déjà Brew is hot in the overcrowded, too-noisy way that's going to have Keith itching inside his skin in about fifteen minutes, but the heat feels good after the cold. Shiro pulls his hat off when the door closes behind them, and it turns out he's not that old—other than the shock of hair falling into his eyes, his hair is dark. He threads through the tables to the counter, apparently trusting that Keith is going to follow him, and takes the spot at the end of the line while tilting his head back to look at the menu. "Have you eaten yet?" he asks. "I'm starving." He glances at Keith and gives him a fleeting smile. "My treat, if you want to get something."

Keith has been working on the same mess of rice and beans for the past four days. Even if he weren't hungry, he'd jump at the offer of something different. "Okay. Thanks."

"No problem. What's good here, do you know?"

Keith usually brushes questions like that off, just like he dodges invitations to grab a pizza or go for drinks, but all things considered, he doesn't have any pride left to protect. If he did, he wouldn't be standing here. "Dunno. This place is out of my budget, so I've never been here before."

Shiro gives him another of those quick little glances, but he just shrugs at that. "So this will be a new experience for both of us."

Keith doesn't know what to say to that, so he doesn't say anything. He scrutinizes the menu instead as the line shuffles forward, and by the time they reach the register, he's settled on a sandwich that sounds like a deli tray had congress with a vegetable tray and packed its unholy offspring into a bread roll, plus a coffee drink that promises to be more sugar and whipped cream than coffee.

Shiro talks to the cashier easily, and she doesn't seem to think twice when Shiro gestures Keith forward and invites him to add to the order. Maybe she shouldn't think anything of it and Keith is jut feeling awkward and self-conscious about the whole thing. She rings them up and hands them a card on a stick for their food order, and they shuffle down to the other end of the counter to wait for their coffee. It's crowded with other customers waiting for the same thing. Ugh. "You wanna wait and let me find a table?"

Shiro seems to hesitate for a moment before he answers. "Okay, sure." He hands off the order marker and Keith moves away from the throng of people with relief. Not that the crowd really thins out all that much. The place is full of students studying and "studying" and the owners have tried to maximize the number of people the building can hold by cramming little tables into any corner that will fit one. He has to go through three rooms before he finds an empty table, which wobbles unevenly when he brushes it as he sits. That's probably the only reason it's empty.

Beggars can't be choosers, so Keith crams his backpack under his chair—uncomfortable, uncushioned wood, probably another reason no one wants this particular table—and sits, drumming his fingers against the table and trying to figure out how this is supposed to go. Should he treat this like a date? (It would help if he had any idea what a date was supposed to look like.) Or should it be more like business negotiation? (Not that he really knows how those are supposed to go, either.)

"This was a terrible idea," Keith says out loud.

It's just his luck that Shiro manages to show up with their coffees just in time to hear that, standing over the rickety little table with a surprised look.

Jesus. Keith feels his face go hot. "Um."

Shiro actually laughs, rueful, and says, "I'm glad I'm not the only one thinking that." He holds Keith's coffee out to him and takes the other seat; they're pretty much knee-to-knee. Shiro puts his own coffee down, the action weirdly careful, and adds, "I have no idea what I'm doing. You?"

Keith wraps his fingers around the mug—ugh, sticky—and shakes his head. "Not a clue."



Shiro smiles, still rueful. "Gotcha. Look, once they bring our food out, I'll just go find another table. Okay?"

Keith looks around at the crowded room and snorts. "Good luck with that." He shakes his head. "Just stay. It's fine."

Shiro gives him a searching look. "You sure?"

He nods. "Yeah, it's fine. Don't worry about it."

"Well, if you're sure." Shiro shrugs out of his coat and settles in. "So you're a student?"

Of course he's a student—oh. Right. Small talk. "Yeah. A junior." Keith takes a sip of his coffee, which is so full of caramel and chocolate and whipped cream that it makes his teeth ache, and answers the obvious follow-up question without even having to be prompted. "Aerospace engineering."

He's expecting one of the two usual responses: either Shiro will look confused because he doesn't have any idea what that means, or he'll say, Oh, so you want to be an astronaut. Which—well, that's beside the point. He's not expecting Shiro's eyes to light up. "Oh, so you must know Professor Alforsson."

"Yeah, of course," Keith says, because of course he knows Professor Alforsson. She's only the program director, after all. "I had one of her classes last semester and another this semester. You know her?"

Shiro nods. "She's a friend of mine."

"Small world," Keith says, since that seems like a better choice than Tell me how to get her to like me enough to agree to direct my capstone project next year.

"College town," Shiro explains, wry, and raises his coffee to his lips.

Keith thinks it's his turn to ask a question now, so he goes for the obvious. "What about you?" Shiro lifts an eyebrow and he clarifies. "You said you were working, so… what do you do?" Shiro's definitely older than the average student, and if he's friends with Professor Alforsson, he's probably a Real Adult.

"Oh." Shiro lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug, looking a little uncomfortable. "These days I'm a consultant."

Whatever that means. Keith doesn't get a chance to ask, because one of the staff shows up and deposits two plates on their table, takes the order card, and stomps off again, all without a word. Keith blinks at this. "…huh?"

"Five stars for service," Shiro says gravely, right before he cracks up.

That sets Keith off, too, laughing over his ridiculous coffee drink and the sandwiches—she didn't even put the right plate down in front of him. Not that she'd bothered to ask. "And people tell me I'm rude." There's not much room on the table for their drinks and the plates, but he manages to shuffle them around so at least he's got the sandwich he ordered in front of him. "Geez."

"I'm beginning to understand why I've never eaten here before," Shiro agrees.

He's the one that picked the place out. Keith makes a face. "Sorry. I didn't know." At least the food looks good, though at this point probably anything would look good to him. Keith tears into his sandwich, and damn, it's going to be hard to go back to living off the cheapest groceries he can find tomorrow.

He's a third of the way through his sandwich when he realizes Shiro is watching him. "…what?" he asks warily. "Is there something on my face?"

"No, you're fine, it's just…" Shiro hesitates. "Just… when you say you're broke, just how broke are you?"

That's a weird question, or it seems that way until Keith manages to parse the look on Shiro's face as concern. Then it clicks. He snorts. "Broke enough to be on day five of the same leftover beans and rice. Not broke enough to be missing meals." He pops a potato chip into his mouth and honesty compels him to add, "Yet, anyway."

Shiro's expression clears somewhat. "What happened?"

"I was an idiot and told my boss off for playing favorites with our schedules. He likes to schedule all the pretty girls for the good shifts so he can perv on them. He said I didn't need to bother coming back if I didn't like the hours I was scheduled to work." Keith shrugs. "At least I was smart enough to get out of there before I did anything really stupid like punching him." And never mind how close a call that might have been. "Rent's due in a couple of days and this month's tuition is coming up. My work-study check isn't going to cover them both. So here I am."

He goes back to his sandwich while Shiro takes all that in. (He hasn't touched his food yet, is nursing his coffee along, but maybe he isn't as hungry as he said he was.) "I guess your family isn't able to help you out?" he says after a moment.

Keith snorts. "Yeah, no, not really."

"First generation student?" Shiro guesses.

There's no reason to be coy, except that he hates the way people get when they find out. "Dunno. I don't have a family." That's shorthand for the whole complicated mess, of course. He probably does have family somewhere, distant cousins or whatever, but he doesn't know them or even how to go about finding them. All his immediate family are gone, dead or just nowhere to be found. So yeah, effectively, he doesn't have a family.

Keith waits for Shiro to give him that pitying look that people get when confronted with an orphan, all you poor thing, that's so awful, but Shiro surprises him. "Oh," he says after a moment. "I see. That would make it difficult for them to help you out."

"Just a little bit," Keith says, pleased by how matter-of-fact Shiro is being about the whole thing. "Makes it hard to get a bank to loan you money without someone to cosign, too, so." He shrugs. "Now you know why I was panicking enough last night to make that stupid post. How come you decided to answer it?" Shiro doesn't act like somebody so closeted he can't find someone to fuck without doing it on the sly, and he's not old enough or creepy enough to have to pay for it—

Shiro closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he opens them again, he just looks… resigned is the best word Keith can think of. "I guess I should've see that question coming."

Well, yeah, duh. Maybe if he were a nicer person, Keith would let Shiro off the hook, since he's so obviously uncomfortable, but no, Keith's really not that nice and besides, Shiro's dragged all Keith's financial woes out into the open. Fair is fair.

Keith works on his sandwich and waits. Eventually Shiro sighs and lifts his right hand out of his lap, where he's kept it since sitting down, like he had someone who drilled him in proper etiquette just as fiercely as Mrs. Kenner had drilled Keith back when he was ten and living with her. Shiro's still wearing a glove on that hand, which only seems strange until he pulls it off to show the prosthetic under the black leather. It looks like some pretty high-tech engineering, the joints articulated and the fingers flexing and curling while Keith's taking it in. It's still a prosthesis, all sleek silver metal. Keith looks it over and waits for Shiro to explain what that has to do with anything, but Shiro is just looking at him, the corners of his mouth tucked in.

"Huh," Keith says. "Okay." He goes back to his sandwich to mull it over, since Shiro seems to think he's answered the question. Maybe he has. God knows this wouldn't be the first time Keith has ever missed a cue that everyone else seems to have gotten without a problem.

Shiro eyes him, then sighs. "Yeah." He goes ahead and picks up his own sandwich, and it looks like he meant it when he'd said he was hungry after all, just… what, self-conscious about his hand?

Keith can't see why. It's a beautiful piece of work, by far the most advanced cybernetics he's ever seen. Ah, well. People are weird sometimes, that's all there is to it.

They don't have much to say to each other while they eat, which Keith likes. Small talk is absolutely the worst. Shiro keeps frowning as he puts away his sandwich, though, which is too bad. Keith hadn't meant to put him in a bad mood. Too late to do anything about it now.



Keith almost regrets having bolted his sandwich so fast—he probably should have tried to make it last—but he makes up for that with his coffee, savoring every last second of each too-sweet mouthful. Shiro catches him at it when he comes back from wherever he's gone inside his head, because he smiles a little. "Sweet tooth?"

"Sometimes," Keith admits. "I usually can't afford this kind of thing."

The little smile fades off Shiro's face; he pushes his empty plate back just a bit and picks up his own coffee. When he speaks again, Keith gets the feeling that he's choosing his words carefully. "When you made that post… what was it you were looking for?"

Huh. Keith takes a deep breath and crosses his fingers, hoping like hell that Shiro's not actually an undercover cop. "A way to make enough money to cover my rent." There. He said it.

Shiro looks grave, but not like he's about to arrest him. "How much do you need?"

That's a number that Keith has no trouble naming, since he spent three hours agonizing over it before posting that stupid ad. "Rent's six hundred. Due by the fourth." And today is the twenty-sixth.

Shiro doesn't even blink. "Okay. I can help with that, if you want."

So. It kind of looks like they're doing this. Okay. Okay, why the hell not? He'd probably hook up with Shiro if they'd met at a party or whatever, so why not do that and get paid for it? "Okay." Keith tries to ignore the way his palms have gone damp on him. "For that, I'm game for whatever you're into, I guess." Oh, shit, that's something he hasn't even thought about. What if Shiro's some kind of pervert? Hoo, boy. Keith pushes that thought away; he literally cannot afford to care even if Shiro turns out to be into—into—Keith's imagination fails him, but that might be for the best.

Shiro is staring at him, wide-eyed and startled. Slowly, he starts going red. "Um," he says. "I—um. Well." He looks around them; Keith can't tell if it's for an answer or an escape route or what. Whatever he's looking for, he doesn't seem to find it. "Um."

"You wanna get out of here and talk it over?"

It's possible that Shiro is just too warm in this overcrowded room, but Keith honestly just thinks he's turning red from embarrassment. He looks around again, but after that he manages to meet Keith's eyes again. Mostly. "Okay. Sure. Did you walk here? I can drop you off at your car, if you want."

"No car," Keith tells him, kindly, because he might actually be more comfortable with this whole thing than Shiro is. "But you can give me a ride home instead."

Shiro lets out a breath. "Okay. Sure. Sounds like a plan."

He doesn't actually move until Keith pulls on his jacket and hauls his backpack out from under his chair; he gathers up their dishes like he's on autopilot. (He's not bothering with the glove any more, but Keith doesn't know whether that ought to mean anything or not.)

After the crowded, overheated coffee shop, the cold night air feels good at first, a relief until it cuts through Keith's jacket and starts to bite at him. But that's nothing new; Keith just shoves his hands in his pockets and gets on with it while he follows Shiro's lead down the sidewalk. When it starts to look like Shiro isn't going to say anything, Keith breaks the silence himself. "So. How do you want to do this?" Should he be trying to negotiate his rates or something? What's the fair market value for sex, anyway?

He's pretty sure he doesn't imagine the way Shiro sort of trips over nothing, but Shiro recovers fast. "Um. I don't really—I've never done anything like this."

So that's two of them. When Shiro doesn't go on, Keith decides that it's going to be up to him to keep the ball rolling. "Right." Keith turns it over in his head. "I think I'm a decent enough lay—" Shiro chokes. "—I've never had any complaints, anyway—" Shiro chokes again. "—but I dunno. How does a hundred bucks a pop sound to you?" Shiro makes another of those strangled sounds; Keith is willing to bet that he's beet red by this point. "I'm open to negotiations," he adds.

"No, I… that sounds fine," Shiro says after a moment, which makes Keith wonder if he should have pushed for a more favorable exchange rate. Whatever. It's a little late right now.

"Sounds like a deal." Now, the tricky part. "I'm thinking cash would be best. You?"

"…yeah, no, that's probably… probably a good idea," Shiro agrees after a second. "We can stop by an ATM on the way to your place, if you want."

Okay, first of all, consulting must pay pretty well if Shiro can just pull six hundred bucks out of thin air like that. Second, does this guy have any sense of self-preservation? Keith could be planning on hitting him over the head and running off with that wad of cash, Jesus. "Yeah, how about half up front and half after you've fucked me at least once?"

Shiro shoots him an indecipherable look. "Don't you need to pay your rent?"

"Of course, but I'm guessing we can find at least one chance between now and then to hook up." Keith reviews his schedule while Shiro is sputtering; hey, since he's down a job he doesn't have to open the store in the morning. He can do tonight's homework then. "You got other plans tonight?"

"Oh my God," Shiro says. "Has anyone ever told you that you're terrifying?"

"Huh. Not lately." Keith shrugs. "So, not tonight? I'm good for Thursday or Saturday, then. How about you?"

Instead of answering, Shiro pulls a set of keys out of his pocket. The car parked just ahead of them flashes its lights.

Keith eyes it and decides that consulting must pay really well. "This you?"

"It is. Do you want to put your stuff in the trunk?"

"Nah." Keith steps up to the passenger side door; oh, yeah. There's plenty of room. "It can ride with me."

"Suit yourself," Shiro says as he checks for traffic and steps around to the driver's side.

The inside of the car is just as sleek as the outside, even if the leather is cold on Keith's ass, and there's plenty of room for this backpack between his feet. Shiro turns the ignition and puts the car in gear to pull out, and yeah, this is definitely nicer than the bus.

Once Shiro's driven them a couple of blocks, Keith decides that the conversational ball is back in his court (assuming it ever left). "So. Thursday or Saturday? I'm good for any time after two on Saturday."

"You really are terrifyingly single-minded," Shiro says. Keith doesn't know what to make of that, so he doesn't bother saying anything at all. After a minute, Shiro sighs. "I could… pick you up on Saturday? Around six?"

"Sure, that's fine," Keith says, glad to have that much settled. It's almost like Shiro doesn't want to get laid. "Also, I hate to tell you this, but I live on the other side of town." Unless Shiro doesn't have other plans for the night? That doesn't seem likely, given how he's had to badger Shiro into the Saturday thing, but…

"That's fine," Shiro says. "I need to stop by the ATM first, remember?"

"Oh, right." Keith settles into his seat, enjoying how quickly the car is warming up, and decides he's done his fair share of talking. It can be Shiro's turn to steer the conversation now.

Since it looks like Shiro isn't in the mood to talk, they sit in silence until Shiro pulls into a bank's parking lot and drives around to the ATM. At that point he says, abrupt, "Are you sure you really only want half up front?"

No sense of self-preservation at all, Keith realizes. How Shiro has gotten this far in life is a mystery to him. "Yeah, I'm sure. I think you're probably good for the rest."

Shiro heaves a sigh and rolls the window down to make the withdrawal, which he hands over to Keith without bothering to count. It must be awfully nice to be rich, Keith thinks wistfully, even as the wad of twenties makes something inside his chest unclench. Whatever else happens, he's good for part of his rent now, and as long as he makes a partial payment to the university, they can't do too much to him.

He folds the bills carefully and jams them deep in his pocket. "Thanks."

Shiro may sigh again as he puts the car back in gear and pulls out. "You're welcome. So where are we headed?"

"You know where University Village is?" Keith says. Shiro makes an affirmative kind of sound. Who doesn't know where the University Village complex is? It's only the largest and most raucous of the student-oriented apartment complexes. Townies complain about it all the time. "Yeah, I live on the other side of it. I'll tell you when we get close."

"Ah. I was wondering how you'd managed to find a place in the Village for only six hundred a month," Shiro says, because that's the other thing about the complex: the rents are outrageous. Not that rent isn't outrageous all over town, because the student population is larger than either the dorms or the available apartments can really handle.

"Yeah, no. I tried it when I transferred up here, but I couldn't take paying seven fifty a month to live with four other guys who only wanted to party." His efficiency may be cramped and old enough to have housed his grandparents, but at least it's his and quiet, by God.

"I can't blame you. That's ridiculous." Shiro sounds appalled, rightfully so. But he doesn't dwell on it. "You transferred?"

"Yep. I did as many of my gen ed courses as I could at the community college where I was living, then moved up here."

"They say that's the way to do it."

"Yeah." It wasn't exactly a choice, unless the choice was between going to school or not going at all. Or enlisting, but Keith likes to think he's self-aware enough to know how that would have gone. "So yeah. Here I am."

"Is this your first year up here, or…?"

"First year," Keith tells him, though it's probably not like Shiro really cares. "I have enough credits to count as a junior." He snorts. "Thought I had enough savings, too, but this place is even more expensive to live in that they tell you it's going to be." It's kind of nice not to have to pretend that everything is completely under control; Shiro already knows the score. Huh. Talk about unexpected benefits.

Shiro goes up another notch in his estimation when he doesn't try to say that he knows how it is. If he's ever been hard up enough to take drastic measures, those days are long behind him. Instead he says, "College towns are like that."

"So I hear." They're coming up on 14th and the Village complex. "Okay, you're looking for the second entrance after the main one. You're gonna make a left onto Maple."

"Got it." Shiro switches lanes; he taps his thumb against the steering wheel and then says, "So, Saturday, do you want to get dinner first?"

Keith snorts. "It's not a date, man, you don't have to buy me dinner first."

"I know, I just—thought it might be less—weird," Shiro says.

Keith has always kind of thought that dates are weird, excuses to hang out long enough to make fucking seem like something more respectable than just hooking up. "You don't have to, really. It's fine."

The sound Shiro makes as he brakes and eases into the turn lane is exasperated. "I know that. I'm offering anyway." He makes the turn and adds, "Think of it as a chance to eat something that isn't rice and beans or instant ramen."

Well, shit. That's not an argument Keith is prepared, or willing, to refute. "Turn right at the third stop sign," he says.

Shiro hums, acknowledging the instructions, and presses the point like he can sense that Keith likes the idea of a restaurant meal. "So—what do you like? Italian? Greek? I've heard the new Thai place on 2nd is good."

"Honestly, it's fine—" Keith tries, but his heart isn't in it.

Shiro stops him before he can get going. "Keith. C'mon. Let me just buy you dinner, okay?"

Keith sighs. "All right, fine." It's really too much—one thing to let Shiro pay for tonight while they were feeling each other out, but another thing to let Shiro take him out before fucking him.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" And damned if Shiro doesn't sound smug about it, too.

That's probably why what happens next goes the way it does: Shiro turns at the third stop sign and Keith tells him to pull into the little parking lot outside his building—"You can park anywhere, I don't think any of us actually have cars"—while an idea presents itself to him.

Keith considers it while Shiro is pulling into one of the parking spaces and looking the building over. There's just enough light for Keith to see him frowning a little, though what's put that look on his face is anyone's guess. Yeah, that pretty well makes up Keith's mind for him.

He unbuckles his seatbelt while Shiro is putting the car in park, waiting and watching so that when Shiro looks his way and starts to say, "So I guess—" Keith is already moving, leaning in to seal his mouth against Shiro's and dropping his hand down between Shiro's legs, cupping it over Shiro's crotch and kneading.

Shiro makes a noise against his mouth that's somewhere between a groan and a protest, or maybe just shock, which is a tactical error on his part because now his mouth is open. Keith slides his tongue between Shiro's lips to tease it against Shiro's and keeps working his hand against the front of Shiro's slacks, where he can already feel Shiro's cock responding to the pressure.

Shiro groans outright, muffled against Keith's mouth, and catches Keith's shoulder. Maybe he means to push Keith back or something, but Keith squeezes him through his slacks and Shiro winds up just holding onto him as a full-body shudder wracks him. He's getting hard fast; Keith has to wonder how long it's been for him. Long enough, apparently. Well, Keith can fix that.

He bites the softness of Shiro's bottom lip and sucks on it as Shiro groans, kneading him firmly until Shiro hitches his hips up against the weight of his hand. Then it's easy enough to unfasten his slacks and dip his fingers inside to curl around his cock and jerk him the rest of the way hard while Shiro gasps against his mouth, something incoherent and shocked. That's good, and so is the length of Shiro's cock as he slides his hand over him. Keith bites Shiro's lower lip again, tugging on it when that makes Shiro shudder as his cock twitches against his palm.

Yeah, Keith could go ahead and leave it at this, or he could go ahead and get the last word. And if there's anything Keith knows about himself, it's that he likes to win, which is why he turns loose of Shiro's mouth and folds himself in half across the front seat so he can close his mouth on Shiro's cock.

Shiro curses, his voice gone deep and rough, as Keith slides his mouth down around him and sucks hard, working the flat of his tongue against Shiro's cock until Shiro tangles his fingers in his hair and pulls—no, not so he can fuck Keith's mouth, because he keeps pulling even when Keith relaxes his jaw for him. That's sort of disappointing; Shiro's got a nice cock and Keith wouldn't mind letting him fuck his mouth. Another time, maybe.

He swats at Shiro's hand and presses down, burying his face in Shiro's lap and humming when Shiro's cock hits the back of his throat.

It has to have been a while for Shiro, because that's when he loses it, his cock pulsing against Keith's tongue as he groans like the sound is being torn right out of his chest.

Keith works him through it, until Shiro's grip on his hair goes loose, then pulls off him.

Shiro is sagging in his seat, eyes closed and expression slack. It's a good look for him.

Keith allows himself a grin. "Thanks for the ride," he says. "See you Saturday at six." And with that, he's out of the car and heading inside before Shiro has even managed to open his eyes. Keith ducks into the building and lets himself into his apartment. Before he turns on the light, he heads for the window to peek through the blinds. Shiro's car is still in the lot below; it's at least five minutes before Shiro backs out of the space and drives away, which leaves Keith feeling triumphant…

…at least until he empties his pockets and figures out that Shiro has given him a full six fifty in spite of their agreement for half of six hundred now and the other half later.

Huh, Keith thinks, staring at the stack of money. So Shiro's going to play it like that, is he? All right, fine. Now it's on.

 
 

Keith doesn't think he's imagining that Shiro looks a little wary when he pulls in and unlocks the passenger door for him. "Hi," he says while Keith's settling himself and buckling up. "How're you?"

"I guess you think you're sneaky," Keith tells him by way of reply.

Shiro has the decency not to pretend that he doesn't know what Keith is talking about and to look embarrassed. "I thought I was being sneaky."

The admission confirms what Keith had figured. "Uh-huh. Then how come you didn't stand me up tonight?"

"I wasn't going to stand you up," Shiro protests. When Keith raises his eyebrows, he looks away and rubs the back of his neck. "I was going to email you about a scheduling conflict. And then… not reschedule."

"Because that's so much better." Keith scowls at Shiro. "I'm sorry, but how the fuck did you get the impression that I wanted your charity, Shirogane?"

Shiro opens his mouth—and stops, closing it again and rubbing his hand over his face. "You didn't, exactly," he admits at length. "I just assumed you didn't really want to fuck someone just to be able to pay your rent."

He says someone, but as he scowls through the half-lit shadows, Keith thinks that what Shiro means is me. Not that he has anything to back that up, of course, or that it really matters. "Uh-huh. So what changed your mind?"

It looks like Shiro's color changes; he clears his throat. "Um. You, uh. Ambushed me with a blowjob. And I, uh, well. It's been a while, I guess." He stops and clears his throat again. "If you don't want to go through with this after all, I understand, but—"

But, Keith thinks. Something, or someone, must have done a real number on Shiro's head to bring him to this point. "All right. So here's the deal: I don't want anything from you that I haven't damn well earned, so you pull another stunt like that and I walk. Got it?"

"Yeah, I got it."

"All right, then." Keith slouches down in his seat and makes himself comfortable. "Guess I don't have to throw your money back in your face after all. What're we doing about dinner?"

For some reason that makes Shiro laugh, the sound startled. "I don't know. I wasn't sure you were going to let me take you to dinner."

"You don't have to, I'm not really that—" Keith's stomach chooses that moment to growl, demonstrating that he's kind of been banking on being able to work things out with Shiro and get dinner out of the deal. "—hungry."

Shiro doesn't say anything right away. He taps his fingers against the steering wheel, vaguely rhythmic, lips pursed like he's thinking about something. "Okay, here's my condition. If we're going to do this, no pretending things aren't what they are," he says. "I think you must do a lot of that, right? But I'd rather know how things really stand."

That's really more perception than Keith was expecting. It catches him off-guard. "Seriously?"

Shiro nods. "Yeah, seriously."

Keith thinks it over, but—maybe this is a good idea. "Okay. In that case, I'm starving. You don't have to buy me dinner, but you're gonna have to let me run back inside so I can grab something to eat if you don't."

Shiro laughs and puts the car in gear. "Let's get something to eat," he says. "Uptown sound good to you?"

Keith isn't sure he knows that one—no, wait, didn't he overhear someone talking about it? "Isn't that place expensive?"

Shiro hums between his teeth. "Depends on what you're used to, I guess. It's not fast food, but it's not ridiculous, either. Nice and comfortable, I'd say."

Which just goes to show, Keith thinks later, staring at a menu whose cheapest options start at fifty bucks and only go up from there, he and Shiro come from very different worlds. "This is comfortable?" he demands of Shiro. "Are you nuts?"

Shiro contrives to look embarrassed again. "Ah. Well. It's comfortable for me?" He quirks a smile, one that Keith doesn't really like—it's kind of mean. He likes it even less when Shiro says, "Believe me, this is one of the least offensive ways I can think of to spend my money." Because the edge in Shiro's smile—it's turned inward, at least until Shiro tucks it away again and gives Keith a different smile. "I'd probably be eating here tonight even if you and I didn't have plans, I promise. So don't worry about the prices. Please."

It's true that the hostess and their server had greeted Shiro by name (and what's more, that Shiro had greeted them by name). And it's true that Shiro appears to be more affluent than any one human being ought to be. Keith adds another stroke to the mental ledger he's keeping. "There's no way the food here is worth these prices," he grumbles as he goes back to looking through the menu.

"Maybe not," Shiro concedes. "But it's pretty good."

"Confirmation bias," Keith mutters, which just makes Shiro laugh.

In the end, Keith gives up on trying to figure out what the most reasonable value on the menu actually is and just stabs his finger down on the steak list—if Shiro wants to balk at that, it's his own fault for picking such a stupidly expensive place for dinner.

Shiro doesn't bat an eye, though, and tops it off by ordering a bottle of wine for them to split, which ends up being a whole show of one of the servers bringing out the bottle for inspection and pouring out a little splash for Shiro to taste. Keith watches the whole thing bemusedly, wondering whether he's secretly being filmed or something. Real people don't actually do this, do they? But no camera crew pops out to catch him out, and Shiro approves the bottle and pours him a glass.

"I guess it's better than the boxed stuff," Keith says after taking a cautious sip.

Shiro laughs again, but not like he's laughing at Keith—Keith definitely knows what that kind of laughter sounds like, and this isn't it. "Sorry. Did you want to order something else?"

"It's fine." Keith takes another sip and decides that it really is fine. "Usually I'm drinking water if I'm splurging on eating out. You know, from the little disposable cups they give you when you're too cheap to pay for an actual soda from the fountain." He taps the side of his water glass. "This is really fancy. It already has the lemon wedge in it."

He's all but daring Shiro to go sympathetic on him, but Shiro nods like he didn't even notice the challenge going by. "Now you see why they charge the prices they do," he intones.

Keith can't help himself; he snorts. "Is that what it is? I see." He shakes his head. Rich people, geez.

Shiro chuckles and changes the subject by asking which classes Keith is taking this semester. That's easy to talk about, especially once it's clear that Shiro knows what he's talking about well enough to ask intelligent questions about what Keith is studying. The wine probably helps, too, to loosen them both up enough to get through the weird small-talk part of barely knowing each other (usually not a thing Keith bothers with if he's going to sleep with someone, but it's tolerable enough with Shiro that he doesn't mind going along with it).

Somewhere along the way, Dr. Alforsson comes up, probably because Keith has another course with her this semester. He's in the middle of talking about how brilliant she is (and Shiro is nodding along in agreement) when their food shows up and derails the conversation.

Keith is secure enough in himself to be able to admit to it when he's made a mistake: "All right, I guess this is a pretty good steak," he says after the first bite. (It's probably the best steak he's ever had, but since steak hasn't ever featured very prominently in his diet, that's not a very high bar. Still.) "But I still don't think it's worth the price."

Shiro grins, unruffled. "I'll have to take you somewhere that really is overpriced sometime just so I can watch your head explode."

Keith narrows his eyes at him. "Is this going to be a thing?" Shiro lifts his eyebrows, so he clarifies. "Eating together before we fuck. Is it going to be a thing?"

"It's nice to have the company." Shiro isn't quite looking at him any more. Instead he's toying with the stem of his wine glass. "If you don't mind, I'd like it to be."

What is Shiro's life like that he thinks Keith is good company? Keith knows for a fact that he's never going to win any awards for his congenial nature. The only answers he can come up with are depressing ones, so he puts it aside. "Sure. As long as you're paying, I don't mind."

Shiro's answering smile is disconcertingly pleased. "Thank you."

Yeah, time for another change of subjects. This is getting uncomfortable. "So how do you know Dr. Alforsson, anyway?"

Shiro blinks at the question. "Oh. Ah. I went to school with her." Keith must be looking as surprised as he feels; Shiro shrugs and adds, "All that was a long time ago."

Which sounds like an attempt to deflect to Keith. "So now you… consult."

Shiro's expression does something complicated that Keith can't make sense of before it settles into something bland. "And now I consult."

Keith draws a line around that subject and labels it Here be dragons. "Cool." He needs to find a new topic to talk about, but that's never been his strong point. Whenever he tries to put his brain on the spot like this, it freezes up.

The awkward silence stretches out long enough to make Keith want to squirm. Shiro breaks it himself. "Sorry. I didn't mean to—well. That part of my life bores me, so I don't usually talk about it much."

That doesn't pass the smell test, but whatever. "Everyone's got stuff they don't want to talk about," Keith says. "It's fine."

Shiro relaxes a little, maybe relieved that Keith isn't going to push it. "Right. So you said you do work-study, too?"

"Yeah, at the library." It's not that interesting, but it gets them through the rest of the meal, anyway, if only because Keith has a few crazy patron stories of his own, plus the others that get passed down as library lore. Shiro must really be hard up for company, because he seems to enjoy every last one. Poor bastard.

"So how are we going to do this?" Keith asks after they've finished eating and Shiro has put a credit card down for what Keith personally feels is an obscene amount of money for just one meal before escorting him back out to the car. "Like… are we going to get a room somewhere, or what?"

Shiro pauses over the question. "We can, if you're more comfortable with that, but I thought it might be easier to go back to my place. Unless you're not okay with dogs…?"

"I'm fine with dogs," Keith says, thinking it over. "I'm not getting a serial killer vibe off you. Your place is fine, I guess."

Shiro casts a sidelong look at him. "I'd hate to know what would give you a serial killer vibe, but I'm glad to hear that I don't have one."

"Yeah, it's really going to suck for me if I end up being wrong about that."

Shiro laughs. "It really would."

At least Shiro's given them something else to talk about. "So… you have dogs?"

"A dog," Shiro says. "Potroast."

It takes a second for it to make sense. "Your dog is named… Potroast?"

"You know, no one ever believes me when I tell them that," Shiro muses. "I don't know why."

"Because Potroast is a weird name for a dog, maybe?" Keith suggests.

"No, it can't be that." Shiro sounds solemn enough, but Keith would bet actual money that the guy is smothering a grin. "Has to be something else."

"If you say so. Why is your dog named Potroast?"

"There was an incident when he was a puppy," Shiro explains. "We were visiting some friends of mine and Colleen had planned to serve pot roast for dinner…"

Keith files away the mention of friends—at least Shiro does have friends—and fills in the meaningful silence himself. "The dog had other ideas?"

"Colleen swears she only turned her back for a second, but yeah, somehow Potroast got up onto the counter and managed to steal the whole thing." Shiro laughs at the memory. "It must have weighed at least half of what he did, but he dragged it off anyway and ran for it. By the time we actually found him, he'd pretty well wrecked it. I think we ended up ordering pizza instead. I forget what I was even going to call him before that, honestly. Sam insisted on calling him Potroast for the rest of the time I was there, and it stuck."

Keith laughs. "Okay. I guess the name makes sense when you explain it like that."

Shiro chuckles. "Yeah. I was probably going to name him something boring like Spot anyway, since it wasn't really my idea to get a dog in the first place." He stops himself short and clears his throat. "Anyway. Yeah. That's why he's called Potroast."

How does someone end up with a puppy if it's not his idea? Keith would ask, but the way Shiro cut himself off makes it sounds like that's another of those here-be-dragons topics. "What kind of dog is he?"

He thinks Shiro is relieved that he doesn't ask any awkward questions about why he adopted a puppy. "Brown, mostly."

Huh. As much money as Shiro seems to have, he'd have figured on some kind of purebred… sort of like he'd have expected them to be heading out of town to one of the rich townie subdivisions. Based on the direction Shiro's taking them, though, it looks like they're heading for the old residential part of downtown, and not even the part with the expensive condos.

Shiro's getting to be more and more interesting with every contradiction he presents.

Not that that's important, really, but Keith can't help noticing.

They lapse into silence until Shiro turns the car into one of the little alleys that riddle the neighborhood and pulls in behind one of the houses. He clears his throat and says, "Here we are," sort of diffidently. Maybe he's getting cold feet again? Yeah, that's no good.

"Cool," Keith says. Before it can get too awkward, he reaches over to hook his hand around the back of Shiro's neck and goes in for a kiss while Shiro is still saying his name. The point is to distract Shiro from his misgivings and maybe give him a little incentive, so Keith puts his back into it, biting down on Shiro's lower lip and sliding his tongue over it, then licking his way into Shiro's mouth.

It works; Shiro grips hips shoulder after just a moment of surprise and gives as good as he's getting, tipping his head to fit his mouth against Keith's and flirting his tongue against Keith's. That's much better than being awkward.

Keith pulls back when it seems like Shiro is really getting into the spirit of things, grinning at the disappointed sound Shiro makes. "You didn't pay a stupid amount of money just to have me blow you in your car again. C'mon." He eels out of Shiro's grip and gets out of the car.

Shiro follows his lead with only a moment of hesitation.

So that's all good.

Shiro leads him from the car around to a side door in the house and unlocks the door; Keith follows him in only to see that there's a small-ish brown dog prancing around Shiro's feet, at least until he realizes that Shiro isn't alone. He comes to attention, sniffing the air, ears pricked forward, and then prances over to investigate Keith's boots.

Keith leans down and offers his hand; he gets licked for his trouble before he's able to rub Potroast's ears, all while Potroast is wagging his stumpy tail so hard that it shakes his hindquarters from side to side. Keith grins and crouches to give himself better access for ear rubs, which makes Potroast close his eyes in canine ecstasy.

"I see that I didn't need to worry about whether dogs would be a problem," Shiro says.

Keith keeps rubbing the dog's ears as he glances up at Shiro's little smile. "I like dogs. They're easy." That makes Shiro's eyebrows shoot up, so Keith stands and wipes his hands against his jeans before Shiro can decide to get nosy. "So. What did you have in mind?"

That works to distract Shiro nicely. He takes a breath and says, "Let me take your jacket and we can go upstairs."

That's more like it. Keith shrugs out of his jacket and watches him hang it up in the hall closet, then follows him deeper into the house, past what looks like the kitchen and through a living room. Potroast comes with them as Shiro leads him upstairs, only to whine when Shiro excludes him from the bedroom by shutting the door in his face. He scratches on the door a few times, tries a couple of barks for good measure, then flops down with a sullen whoof that comes through the door clearly. From the sounds of it, this is probably pretty standard routine for the two of them.

Just as well. He's not sure how he'd handle an audience, four-legged though it might be.

Anyway.

Keith balances himself with a hand on the dresser to take off his boots; the sound of them thumping down against the floor sounds loud in the quiet room as Shiro watches him, expression gone unreadable. He speaks when Keith straightens up and goes for his t-shirt. "Wait." When Keith lifts his eyebrows, Shiro says, "I want to…" He makes a little gesture at Keith. "Can I…?"

Keith drops his hands to his sides and spreads them out. "Be my guest."

Shiro wets his lips and comes away from the door; Keith waits to see what he's going to do, curious.

Shiro reaches out, left-handed, and cups his jaw, sliding his thumb under Keith's chin to tilt his face up for a kiss, which as good a way as any to get things started. Keith opens up for the slide of his tongue and smoothes his hands up Shiro's chest and over his shoulders as he steps closer, bringing them chest-to-chest. That's good as far as Keith is concerned; Shiro is really solid under his hands. Shiro seems to approve as well and curves his right hand around Keith's hips to press him that much closer.

Keith would smile if he weren't too busy with Shiro's mouth, so he does the next best thing and lets the pressure of Shiro's hand pull him in close enough to rock against Shiro's thigh. The pressure feels good, heat rolling up his spine, and the sound Shiro makes is even better, muffled as it is against Keith's mouth. He sounds hungry, hungry for Keith, and when Keith grinds against him, he can feel how hard Shiro already is for him.

Maybe he'll ask Shiro just how long his dry spell has lasted, at some point. Or maybe not; it's not like it's any of his business.

For now, Keith pulls back from Shiro's mouth enough to ask, "You want to fuck me?"

" God, yes," Shiro says, fervent, and goes for Keith's shirt in the same breath.

Keith laughs and helps peel it off, then reaches for Shiro's tie. He's got his finger hooked in the knot when he realizes that Shiro has gone still. Hm. He casts a glance up at Shiro. "Maybe not?"

Shiro releases his breath; he looks like he hates every word that's coming out of his mouth even as he says them: "I'd rather you not."

"Okay." Keith unhooks his fingers and slides his hand around the back of Shiro's head so he can pull him down for another kiss.

Shiro is slow to get back with the program; he sets his hand against the small of Keith's back, touch light against Keith's bare skin. "You're not going to ask?"

"Do you really want me to?" Keith counters. Shiro bites his lip. "Yeah, that's what I figured." He drops his hand between them and cups Shiro through his slacks. "Pretty sure we'll manage one way or another," he says as Shiro groans and pushes into his hand.

There's really no reason for Shiro to be looking so relieved, Keith figures, but whatever. There are more interesting things they could be doing right now.

He gives Shiro a friendly squeeze and extracts himself from Shiro's arms. "So, about fucking me…" He gets his jeans unfastened and strips down to his bare skin, which gets Shiro's attention and keeps it. "Just what did you have in mind?" There's a nicely solid-looking footboard on Shiro's bed, but the bed itself is turned down, too.

Shiro is slow to answer, but then, he's taking Keith in like he's enjoying the view. Perhaps the lagging response is understandable. Keith lets him look, and when it seems like Shiro might be a little too distracted, he drops his hand down to play with his cock. "So, you thinking about having me on my back, or bent over the foot of your bed, or—"

" Jesus," Shiro breathes. "You are the most single-minded person I've ever met." He rakes his hand through his hair and points at the bed. "How about on your knees?"

"Sure," Keith says, not too surprised by the choice, what with the way he's naked and Shiro's still completely dressed. He considers the bed and decides—why not? And slinks over the foot of it. The mattress is nicely firm under his hands and knees, and the sheets are the kind of smooth and soft that yells expensive in the back of Keith's head. Not that that's a surprise. Keith plants his knees wide and tips his weight forward, resting it on his forearms. Shiro groans. "Something like this what you had in mind?"

"…yeah." Shiro sounds like he's having trouble getting enough air. "That's… yeah."

Keith peers over his shoulder; Shiro is staring, jaw a little slack, and he's so hard that the fabric of his slacks is pulled taut with the way they're tented out. Keith grins at him and reaches down to slide his fingers between his legs, stroking them back behind his balls and spreading himself open. "So get over here and fuck me already."

" Jesus," Shiro says again, swaying forward—and then he's there, like that little movement was all it took to break him out of his daze and into action. Keith hears the rattle of the nightstand drawer, a crinkle of foil, and then he feels the mattress move as Shiro climbs onto the bed after him.

Well, finally, geez.

Shiro laughs, low and breathless, which is when Keith realizes that he might have said that out loud. "You are definitely the pushiest person I've ever slept with."

"I'm not pushy, I'm goal-oriented," Keith tells him—tries to tell him before Shiro interrupts him, taking hold of his hip with cool metal fingers while he's sliding warm, slick fingers right into him. " Fuck."

Now that Shiro's finally moving, he's not hesitating. He has two fingers buried to the knuckle inside Keith before Keith can say another word, and his hold on Keith's hip keeps him from rocking back on them in search of more. Keith groans, delighted by the decisive sharpness of the stretch in his muscles, and crosses his arms so he can rest his cheek against them. " God, that's good."

It kind of sounds like Shiro agrees; he curses softly as Keith cants his hips up a little higher and curls his fingers inside Keith. "Look at you."

"If you want," Keith says, shuddering as sensation skitters up his spine. "Rather have you fuck me, though."

"Just like this?"

Keith twists a little so he can grin at Shiro. "Oh, yeah." It'll be intense—it'll be perfect.

"Jesus," Shiro says, but his eyes are hot and dark enough that it's clear he's on board with that idea. "How are you even real?"

Keith doesn't know how he's supposed to answer that, but Shiro crooks his fingers as he drags them out of him, so he's too busy groaning as fireworks go off inside his skull to bother. It was probably rhetorical, anyway.

Then Shiro's fingers are gone, and Keith hears the crinkle of the wrapper and the breath Shiro sucks in as he rolls the condom over his cock.

Shiro has great instincts—he closes his hands on Keith's hips, holds them steady when Keith would rock back against the first slow push as Shiro sinks into him, thick enough to stretch him fiercely. Keith closes his eyes and groans, the breath stuttering in his throat as his world narrows down to that single point, the slowness of Shiro pushing into him, filling him up, hands sure enough on his hips that all Keith can do is take it.

Shiro leans over him as he bottoms out; his tie brushes over the bare skin of Keith's back, silky-cool and ticklish, contrast to the rough pattern Keith can feel where Shiro's zipper is pressed against his bare ass. "Fuck," he says, his voice gone rough and unsteady, "fuck, Keith…"

Shiro's got a tight enough grip on his hips that Keith can't actually move, but he can try to move against them, straining to grind himself back on Shiro's cock. "C'mon, Shiro, move."

Shiro groans; the moment he loses his self-control is perfectly audible in the sound. " Fuck," he says as he lifts Keith's hips higher, high enough that he's supporting Keith's weight in the air as he rocks into Keith again, hard and deep. God, it's good. Keith grips the sheets, gasping as Shiro holds him up and fucks him, each snap of his hips driving the breath out of his throat with the way sensation punches right through him. It's rough and it's perfect, from the effortless way Shiro holds him up and pulls him back to meet each roll of his hips to the thick, heavy weight of Shiro's cock sliding in and out of his ass, stretching him open mercilessly and holding him there, from the sleek texture of the sheets under his cheek to the distant ache of how tightly Shiro is holding his hips. It's gonna go fast, he can just tell, nothing this urgent can last for long. Keith reaches down to palm his cock, stroking himself roughly to match the way Shiro is slamming into him, Jesus—

His orgasm is sudden, almost brutal with how fiercely pleasure grips him, wringing down on him without mercy. Keith cries out with it, thin and breathless at the punch of pleasure, shaking with the force of it rolling over him, and may actually black out a little. He loses track of things for a moment, anyway; the next thing he knows is that Shiro is just about growling as he jerks against Keith, hips stuttering as he comes hard enough that Keith can feel the throb of it inside him.

Keith groans, shivering as little aftershocks of sensation roll through him, and grunts when Shiro goes abruptly lax, slumping against his back and breathing hard. That's a lot of unexpected weight; Keith lets it push him down to the sheets and barely has the presence of mind to roll to side far enough to avoid the wet spot.

Shiro huffs a breath against the back of his neck that might be amusement, but he doesn't object—just shifts a little to drape his arm over Keith.

They stay like that for while, Keith doesn't know how long and really doesn't care when he's feeling well-used and satisfied. It's certainly long enough for them to catch their breaths and for the sweat to start drying on his skin. Eventually Shiro says, "God."

"Mm." Keith pulls himself back from the edge of drifting into a doze. "Yep."

Shiro stirs behind him. A moment later, Keith feels Shiro's mouth soft against his shoulder. "That was… God."

It was pretty fantastic, even if he is saying so for himself. "Mm. Satisfaction guaranteed or your money back."

"…ah, yes. I don't think that's going to be a problem."

Chances are good that Shiro wouldn't say anything even if it were a problem, but Keith doesn't bother pointing that out. Instead he stretches, slow and luxurious, and twists himself around enough that he can at least see Shiro, who looks pretty amazing with his hair all messed up and a tiny, content curl at the corners of his mouth. "So, what's the plan now? A second round?" he could get on board with that for sure.

Shiro snorts. "Some of us aren't in our twenties any more."

That's as it may be, but all the same, Keith thinks Shiro might like the idea. Hm. He raises his eyebrows. "Is that supposed to be some kind of challenge?"

Whether it is or not, the question makes Shiro laugh. "Only if you're the competitive sort." His eyes don't match what's coming out of his mouth; they're starting to go all speculative.

Well, all right. Keith can work with that. "Oh, man, have I got some bad news for you." Keith plants his hand on Shiro's shoulder and pushes him over onto his back—or maybe Shiro lets him do that. Keith follows him, raising himself up so he can bend his head and kiss Shiro. He takes his time with it, moves his mouth against Shiro's softly as Shiro lifts a hand to cup the back of his head, catching his lower lip between his teeth and sucking on it until it's red and swollen and Shiro has closed his eyes and started to make quiet, interested sounds in his throat. That's when Keith goes exploring, biting the corner of Shiro's jaw and sucking a pink mark just under his ear.

Shiro protests that, laughing a little. "I am way too old to be walking around with a hickey, you know."

Keith probably shouldn't, but really—just what does Shiro think is going to come of saying something like that? He goes for Shiro's throat and bites down, which gets another of those interested sounds from Shiro, and then he sucks on the bite mark, hard. He doesn't let up until Shiro tangles his hand in his hair and tugs firmly enough to mean business. Keith raises his head and grins at him. "Problem?"

"What part of 'too old to be walking around with a hickey' is so difficult to understand?" Shiro may be trying for exasperation, but his lips keep twitching.

"All of it," Keith decides. Before Shiro can argue with him, he stoops to kiss him again. It's a far better use for Shiro's mouth than say such stupid things, anyway.

Shiro huffs into his mouth, not fooled or something, but he doesn't object, either. Keith is going to call it good.

It's a shame that Shiro is body-shy or whatever it is that has him still dressed. Keith would like to go ahead and put his hands all over the guy, which isn't nearly as satisfying through the layers of his clothes as it would be otherwise. Shiro feels solid under his hands, and Keith would be willing to guess that he looks as good as he feels. At least Shiro doesn't seem to feel any compunctions about touching or being touched. Keith hums against Shiro's mouth and arches into the slide of his hand as it travels over his back and ass, warm and slow, and drapes himself over Shiro so he can bear down against Shiro's cock.

Shiro groans, which is a good sound and matches the way he's starting to get hard again.

Heh. Too old his ass.

Keith shifts against him, rubbing against him steadily, groaning with Shiro as he rubs against the twilled fabric of Shiro's slacks, almost too much friction to really feel good and definitely not enough to make him stop, either. He's also probably ruining Shiro's slacks, which is certainly an amusing bonus.

Shiro groans his name when Keith bears down and grinds against him, so Keith grins against his mouth. "So… second thoughts on another round?"

Shiro leans his head back to look at Keith from beneath his eyelashes. "You're a menace."

That's certainly not a no. Keith reaches down to palm Shiro's cock, smiling when Shiro lifts his hips into the touch. "I guess I'll just have to ride you this time, old man," he concedes, and pushes himself up to find the lube and another condom while Shiro is still sputtering over that. Keith gives it even odds whether it's over the old man or the suggestion. Not that it matters by the time Keith has rummaged up another condom (and gotten a look at what else is in the bedside drawer). Shiro is back to staring at him, propped up on his elbows and flushed as Keith prowls back across the mattress to him. (His clothes are going to be a complete loss, Keith notes, pleased by how wrecked they already are.)

He straddles Shiro's hips and uses Shiro's tie to coax him up far enough to kiss him again while he gets busy unrolling the condom down Shiro's cock and slicking more lube over him. He doesn't let Shiro up for air again until Shiro's is trying to rock against his hands. That's when Keith plants a hand in the middle of his chest and pushes him down. "All right, time for you to lay back and let me do all the work, old man."

"You brat—" Shiro says, possible actually a little outraged, but Keith doesn't bother to let him finish. Instead he raises himself up and guides Shiro's cock into him as he sinks back down again. The stretch is relentless, and Shiro's head falls back on the hoarseness of his groan as pleasure sweeps the irritation from his expression.

Keith lets his own weight bear him all the way down, gasping for breath as he does, and holds himself balanced over Shiro for an endless moment. God, that's good, and so is the way Shiro looks under him, clothes a mess and hair falling across the sheets as he flings his head back and groans Keith's name.

This time goes slower; Keith balances himself over Shiro, grinding himself down on Shiro's cock until the burn in his muscles melts into need, and then he moves at a leisurely pace, rocking up and letting himself slide back down the length of Shiro's cock slowly, enjoying the way it feels to have Shiro filling him up and the burn in his thigh muscles as he moves. After a few rolls of his hips, he realizes that Shiro is watching him, eyes nearly veiled by his lashes. Keith grins at him and keeps on moving, fucking himself on Shiro's cock and never—quite—stopping, even when Shiro reaches for his hips. "Ah-ah." He smacks Shiro's hands away. "I said I'd do all the work, didn't I?"

"I'm not sure I remember agreeing to that," Shiro argues, right before he drives his hips up, a harder stroke than Keith is expecting, and yeah, that's really good too.

Keith laughs, breathless, and grinds himself down around Shiro, catching his rhythm and letting the heat sweep him higher on every stroke, until he's gulping in air and feeling like he's still not getting any oxygen, like he's going to rattle apart with sensation, God—

When Shiro reaches for him again, he doesn't try to evade his hands, just groans his appreciation when Shiro grips his cock and strokes him hard. He flies apart then, pleasure raking him open as he comes over Shiro's fingers and chest, and as he begins to come down after, Shiro bucks beneath him, arching off the bed while his cock throbs inside Keith.

Shiro definitely isn't going to be wearing this particular set of clothes again, Keith notes as he catches himself over Shiro and pants for breath. Oops.

Shiro sprawls beneath him, chest heaving, and barely grunts when Keith slides off him and curls against his side. He looks relaxed, though, so Keith gives himself a gold star for his performance.

He promptly rescinds that gold star a minute later, when Shiro's breathing has slowed, turned deep—was that a snore? Keith makes a face when the sound repeats itself; that was definitely a snore.

Well. Now what is he supposed to do?

He tries Shiro's name a couple of times, starting quiet and ending up at a conversational level, but Shiro doesn't stir. When Keith gives up on that and sits up, that doesn't disturb him either.

"Should've talked about what happens after up front," Keith mutters. Live and learn, though. Live and learn.

He watches Shiro sleep for a bit and gives up on hoping that Shiro is just dozing when Shiro begins to snore in earnest. On to Plan B, then: he unknots Shiro's tie for him and lets himself out of the room (the dog is overjoyed to see him) to hunt down the bathroom, which turns out to be right across the hall. Even better, there's a linen closet right there. Keith abstracts a washcloth and towel to clean up with, then takes the wet washcloth back to the bedroom to get Shiro cleaned up as well.

Shiro is definitely down for the count. He doesn't stir for the clean-up at all, or when Keith takes the blanket folded at the foot of the bed and drapes it over him.

Keith reviews his handiwork and finds it good, returns the washcloth to the bathroom, and gets dressed again. It's still early enough that the buses are running and Shiro shouldn't live too far from a stop. He gives Potroast one last ear rub and lets himself out into the night, feeling generally satisfied with life.

Yeah, this thing with Shiro is gonna work out just fine.

 
 

Keith isn't very surprised to hear from Shiro—he did send the guy an email along the lines of last night was fun, here's my number, text me when you want to set up the next time after all, but when his phone starts vibrating and he takes a chance on the unfamiliar number, the first thing out of Shiro's mouth is, "How did you get home?" And that isn't what he expected, exactly.

Keith puts his pen down, just as happy to take a break from his homework as not. "The buses were still running," he tells Shiro, curious to see where this is going.

"You didn't have to take a bus." Shiro sounds rather shocked. "You should've woken me up—I would've taken you home—"

"Don't worry about it so much." Keith is honestly a little touched. "As hard and fast as you sacked out, I figured you needed the sleep. I wasn't gonna wake you up just so you could drive me home when there's a perfectly good public transit system."

"I wouldn't have minded." Shiro sounds very earnest about it. "I'm pretty used to short sleep, it wouldn't have bothered me. Or I could have called you a cab—or at least let you sleep in the spare room—"

"You are way more upset about this than I am," Keith says. "Trust me, it's fine. I hope you slept well."

"…very well," Shiro says. "But next time, wake me up if I fall asleep, okay?"

"Mm." Keith chooses to seize on the opening rather than promise he'll do any such thing. "So, when do you wanna do this again?"

That does the trick. Shiro goes quiet for a bit and then clears his throat. "I—what would be a good time for you?"

"We could do next Saturday again, if you want."

"That—I don't want to monopolize your weekends," Shiro protests. "I remember that Fridays and Saturdays are when the parties happen."

Keith snorts. "Okay, first, parties happen all the time. Second, they're overrated and I only go to them when I wanna get laid. You've got that part covered, so don't worry about it. Six o'clock still work for you?"

Shiro laughs. "Have you ever met anyone you couldn't out-stubborn?"

"Not that I can think of. But if you're that worried about my social life, I can do my homework Saturday night and we can hook up Sunday instead. If we time it right, you can pass out afterwards and claim it was your Sunday nap." Keith grins at the utterly outraged noise that comes over the line. "That is what old men like to do on Sundays, right?"

"You little punk," Shiro says, indignant. "I'm not that old!"

"Of course not," Keith reassures him, still grinning, and remembers some crappy birthday card's slogan: "You're just rich in years and experience."

Shiro goes quiet long enough for Keith to start wondering whether he's pushed it too far. Then he says, "I'll show you rich in experience, you goddamn brat. Saturday at six."

"Sounds like a plan," Keith says, manfully controlling his urge to snicker. "Looking forward to it."

"I'll see you then," Shiro says and hangs up on him.

Keith gives up and laughs until his stomach hurts.

 
 

Keith thinks that Shiro's gotten over his pique when the guy shows up Saturday evening, smiling calmly and insisting that it's Keith's turn to pick where they eat, and then chats amiably with him about his classes and coworkers and (fruitless) job hunt over dim sum. Keith allows himself to be lulled into a false sense of security by all this, which turns out to be a mistake.

Not that he has any idea of this before Shiro gets him naked and flat on his back in Shiro's bed. That's when Shiro, who is still wearing the worn pair of jeans and sweatshirt he started out in and is straddling Keith's hips, leans forward and fishes a pair of padded restraints out from under the pillow where they've been hiding. Shiro dangles these from a finger and arches his eyebrows at Keith. "You game?"

Keith licks his lips, looking from the restraints to Shiro's face and back again. He's pretty sure that Shiro will take a no if he says he's not and reasonably sure that Shiro isn't a serial killer who's going to turn him into steaks if he says yes. He's also sure that Shiro is issuing a challenge, based on the crooked little smile tugging at the corners of Shiro's mouth.

Keith has never in his life been able to back down from a challenge, even when he knows he ought to.

He tips his head back and shows Shiro his teeth. "Of course I'm game. Do your worst, old man."

Shiro's eyes spark at that, which was pretty much the goal, and he promptly takes Keith's hands and stretches his arms over his head, wrapping the restraints around Keith's wrists before hooking them to the headboard. It's only after he leans back from doing that that he says, "Say stop and we will. Got that?"

Keith tests the restraints, which are snug around his wrists, but the way his arms stretch over his head is comfortable enough to be going on with. And there's a certain edge of curiosity winding anticipation through him—more than he would have expected, anyway. That's one way to discover a kink, he guesses. "Got it," he reports, settling his head against the pillow and making himself comfortable. "Just what are you planning, anyway?"

Shiro smiles at him, bland, giving nothing away. "Wait and see."

Keith rolls his eyes at the non-response but opens his mouth for Shiro anyway, letting Shiro slide his tongue between his lips and sucking on it. The natural move would be to go ahead and wind his arms around Shiro, but the restraints haul Keith up short when he tries, and that—that's an interesting twist of heat. Keith groans against Shiro's mouth and arches a little when Shiro slides his hand over his bare chest to thumb one of his nipples. Shiro rubs the pad of his thumb back and forth until Keith can feel the tingle of that from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, is shivering with the slow tease. Then Shiro pinches him, rolling Keith's nipple between forefinger and thumb.

Keith jerks against the restraints, all but shouting at the sudden, unexpected bolt of sensation, pleasurably painful. "Fuck!"

Shiro pinches and holds him until Keith is straining under him, arching his back off the bed as if that's going to relieve the exquisite pressure of Shiro's fingers, until he's gasping for breath and it feels like his entire world has narrowed down to Shiro's fingers on his chest.

The sudden absence of that aching pressure is just as intense; Keith shudders when Shiro releases his grip and the blood rushes back into aching skin, every nerve he has come alive with anticipation.

He catches a glimpse of Shiro's smirk when Shiro pulls away from his mouth and scoots down the bed just a bit—Shiro has his legs pinned now, Keith realizes, has him at his mercy between the restraints and the weight of him settled across Keith's thighs. That realization comes sudden as a thunderbolt, but Shiro doesn't allow him any time to process it or the way his stomach twists. He bends down and closes his mouth on Keith's nipple. Keith shouts again, pulling taut between the restraints and Shiro's mouth, so soft and hot against his over-sensitive skin.

Shiro puts his tongue to work, which shouldn't even be fair, and then, before Keith has even a prayer of acclimating to that, he closes his fingers on Keith's other nipple, pinching it firmly. Keith jerks against the restraints, straining under Shiro's weight across his thighs as that twists heat low in his stomach, has his cock hard and heavy against his stomach. " Shiro," he says—gasps, really, while Shiro is pinching him firmly, the aching pressure of his fingers enough to make Keith bite down on his lip to keep himself from whimpering. "Shiro—fuck—"

Shiro sets his teeth against the too-sensitive skin he's been mouthing, the edge of them shockingly sharp after the gentle stroke of his tongue. Keith loses it—comes just like that, trying to buck under Shiro as his cock pulses across his stomach, shit—! He can't move under Shiro's weight, can't really do anything but take the rush of sensation, and he yells with the shock of that realization, vision whiting out with how hard he comes.

Once Keith has recovered enough to be able to open his eyes again, there's no other way to classify Shiro's expression as anything but smug. He's still straddling Keith's legs, pinning him to the bed, and there's a grin tugging at his lips. "Back with me?"

"Shut up," Keith tells him, but the rasp of his voice really undermines the attempted venom.

"Did I say anything?" Shiro might be trying to sound innocent or something, but he's not doing a good job of it.

Keith grimaces at him. "You didn't have to. It's all over your damn face."

Shiro goes ahead and gives in to his grin, which would be annoying if not for the fact that he's also skating his fingers through the mess on Keith's stomach at the same time. Keith loses whatever it is Shiro says then when Shiro runs his fingers over the head of his cock, the rush of sensation hovering on the edge of what he can bear—fuck, fuck, he's only just come back down, there's no way he can stand to be touched when he's still hypersensitive. He struggles against the restraints, against Shiro's weight, not sure whether he's trying to twist away from that light, relentless pressure or push into it instead.

It doesn't matter, really. He can't do either, and Shiro keeps on toying with him, brushing the pads of his fingers over the head of him until Keith is frantic with it, would be writing against the overstimulation if only he could get enough purchase to do it, but he can't, he can't—

When he comes this time, he can hardly distinguish between the merciless crescendo of sensation as Shiro strokes him and the way his body spasms with his pleasure—pleasure that draws out and out and out some more, because Shiro isn't stopping, isn't letting up at all, is holding him pinned to the far edge of sensation, Christ fuck, Keith is going to die like this, his heart is going to explode in his chest, he's going to strangle on his own gasping breath—

Pleasure tips over the edge between one moment and the next, turns unbearable, and Keith shouts something, he doesn't know what.

Shiro stops cold.

The sudden drop-off is as intense, in its own way, as the way Shiro has been making him come. Keith jerks helplessly under Shiro, trembling in the aftermath and so exquisitely sensitive that the texture of Shiro's jeans draws a whimper out of his throat when Shiro settles back on his heels. And that's just the slight friction of denim against his thighs, for fuck's sake.

Keith thinks he's a pretty fair-minded guy, willing to give credit where credit is due. When he finally manages to catch his breath and pry his eyes part of the way open, he says, "Okay. I'm impressed."

Shiro smirks at him. "That's more like it."

"Yeah, yeah." He's not sure he can actually move right now, so it's probably for the best that he's still immobilized. But Shiro's jeans are pulled tight across his crotch, and Keith figures he probably ought to do something about that. "So what about you?"

"Me?"

Keith doesn't know how Shiro can manage to be surprised by that question when it looks like he's hard enough to cut glass. "Yeah, you. D'you wanna fuck me or what?" He's pretty sure he's done for the night himself, but Shiro will probably make it good for him in spite of that. "Or… you could come up here and fuck my mouth, if you want."

It looks to Keith like maybe Shiro does want; he closes his eyes and catches his lower lip between his teeth. "God," he says after a moment.

"I'll even let you keep me all tied up," Keith offers, and jackpot.

Shiro groans. "You talked me into it," he says, dropping himself forward and crawling up the bed to straddle Keith's chest. He undoes his jeans and shoves his underwear down—yeah, he's hard enough that Keith bets it hurts.

It takes all the energy Keith can muster to lift his head off the pillow, but then Shiro reaches down to him and slides his hand under his head, lifting him and supporting him. "Here," he says, voice pitched low and rough. Keith opens his mouth for it as Shiro guides his cock into his mouth and sucks obediently.

Shiro groans again as he slides across Keith's tongue, heavy and already wet with the taste of salt and bitterness. Keith has already lifted his head as far off the pillow as he can, and Shiro's hand is holding him there, so there's not much he can do except let Shiro push into his mouth, over the flat of his tongue, and suck as hard as he can.

He feels Shiro tighten his hand in his hair when he does that. Shiro rocks forward, burying himself as deep in Keith's mouth as he can as he swears, voice rough. "Fuck, Keith—"

Keith hums to him, hoping that Shiro takes it for the encouragement that he means it to be, and works his tongue against the underside of Shiro's cock as Shiro pulls back, far enough that Keith can tongue his slit before he increases the pressure in his mouth again. Shiro growls and rocks into his mouth again, Jesus, this is probably going to go fast. That's okay by Keith, who relaxes his jaw and works with the short, sharp jerks of Shiro's hips, letting Shiro fucks his mouth however he likes. It's not the best angle, which is a pity. Keith would kind of like to see what Shiro looks like, doing this, would like to know how pleasure changes the expression on his face to go with the sounds he's making.

Maybe another time. For now, it's pretty good to just let Shiro hold him and use his mouth.

It really doesn't take long before Shiro curses again, low and breathless, and pulls back, sliding out of Keith's mouth as he turns loose of Keith's hair and drops his hand to his cock instead. All it takes is a couple of quick, hard strokes and Shiro is coming hot and messy across Keith's collarbones, groaning deep in his throat as he arches over Keith.

Keith really is done for the night, but even so—that's a hell of a thing to watch, hot enough to make his cock twitch a little in response.

He waits for Shiro to come back down; when Shiro sags forward and braces himself with a hand against the wall, he says, "I do swallow, you know."

God alone knows why that makes Shiro laugh, but it does—full-out laughter from the gut that has him leaning against the wall over Keith's head and then wiping a hand over his eyes when he's done. "You're something else," he says when he's done, still breathless, and reaches down to release Keith's hands before he flops himself down on the bed next to him.

Keith leaves his hands where they are, not quite motivated enough to move yet, though he's enough of a mess that that's gonna need to be dealt with pretty soon. "I'm just saying. You didn't have to pull out." He considers it. "Or I guess you could've come on my face, if that's what you're into. I don't mind."

"I'll make a note of it," Shiro says with what Keith suspects is mock gravity.

"You do that," Keith says.

They lapse into quiet for a bit, lying next to each other and just breathing, until Shiro heaves a sigh and sits up. "Back in a minute," he announces as he swings his legs over the side of the bed and stands.

Keith watches with idle curiosity as Shiro does up his jeans and steps out of the bedroom.

The dog takes advantage of the open door and saunters in. He noses at the pile of Keith's clothes before jumping up onto the bed. "I bet you're not supposed to be up here," Keith tells him, not that this does any good. Potroast lays down next to him and beats his stubby tail against Keith's leg so hopefully that Keith gives in and sets a hand on his head to rub his ears.

Potroast whuffles a canine sigh of contentment and beats his tail harder.

That's how Shiro finds them when he returns a few minutes later. "You're not allowed on the bed," he tells the dog, who ignores him except for the frantic wagging of his tail.

"That's what I said," Keith says to Shiro. "He didn't listen to me."

Shiro snorts. "Potroast has very selective hearing." He comes around to the side of the bed closest to Keith and sits; he's got a towel and a wet washcloth. Keith starts to reach for them, but Shiro shakes his head. "I've got it."

"You don't have to—"

Shiro ignores him and leans over him, wiping the wet cloth over his chest and stomach. He's gentle about it, which is a damn good thing—Keith doesn't realize how sensitive he still is until he feels wet terrycloth against his skin and hisses in surprise. "I'm fine," he says when Shiro recoils. "Just, you know. Kinda sensitive right now."

"Got it." Shiro handles him even more gently after that, wiping him clean and then drying him carefully.

It's—it's kind of nice, really, though it's not like Keith couldn't have taken care of it himself. But since it seems to make Shiro happy to be doing it, Keith lets him get on with it and keeps rubbing the dog's ears instead, until Shiro finally straightens up and bundles the soiled washcloth with the towel and sets them aside.

That's as good a cue as any.

Keith permits himself a long, luxurious stretch—Shiro looks on appreciatively—and sits up. "I guess I should get going." He nudges Potroast out of his way so he can get up and get himself dressed. "Don't wanna miss the last bus."

He can't even pretend to be surprised when Shiro says, "Don't worry about that. I'll drive you home."

"You really don't have to," Keith tells him as he steps into his jeans and pulls them up.

There's a stubborn set to Shiro's jaw. "I know I don't have to. I want to. That's different."

Keith doesn't have it in him to argue the point just now, so he pulls his shirt on and perches on the edge of the bed to pull his boots on. "Well, if you insist, I guess I won't try and stop you."

"I do insist," Shiro says firmly, and that settles that.

Keith feels like it ought to be more awkward, somehow, to let Shiro drive him home—like it shouldn't be so easy to go from letting Shiro fuck his mouth so he can pay his rent to sitting in Shiro's passenger seat and talking about the basketball team's showing against Galra Tech (the women's team, that is; the men's team has been a disgrace for years and everyone knows it). It usually isn't that easy with his other hook-ups, but then, his other hook-ups are usually drunken frat bros. That probably explains it.

"So, same time next week?" he says as Shiro turns on to his street.

Shiro doesn't demur this time. "That sounds good to me."

"All right, sounds like a plan. Your turn to pick where we eat."

Shiro utters a thoughtful sound as he brakes and pulls into Keith's lot. "That's true. Wear something nice."

"How nice?" Keith counters, wary, because it's not as though he's got a lot of options to work with.

Shiro laughs. "Wear a tie," he advises as he pulls into one of the empty spaces and puts the car in park.

"Ugh, really? Can't we just skip the ties and order pizza?" Keith complains as he unfastens his seatbelt.

It just makes Shiro laugh again. "We can do that the next time it's your turn to pick."

" Ugh," Keith says. Ties are the worst.

Before he can get out of the car or complain any more, Shiro reaches over to cup the back of his head as he leans over—oh, for a kiss. Huh. "Have a good week, Keith. I'll see you Saturday."

"Yeah," Keith says, distracted. "Sure. You too." And he forgets about the whole tie thing until after Shiro has driven away, which, honestly, was probably the whole reason Shiro kissed him goodnight to begin with, the sneaky bastard.



 
 

By the time six o'clock on Saturday rolls around again, Keith has forgotten all about being told to wear a tie—he's forgotten all about Shiro, period, and basically everything that isn't his crappy, refurbished, piece-of-shit laptop, which makes a sad, whirring sort of choking noise when Keith pauses in the middle of his homework to save. Then the screen goes black.

He manages to get it to power back on again, once, and for a minute it seems like there's nothing actually wrong, that the whole thing has just been a fluke. Then the screen freezes and something inside the casing makes a clunking noise, and the whole thing dies again.

Literally dies, Keith thinks, not that he can say for sure. He tries the university's tech support line, but the bored work-study student who's covering the lines for the weekend answers isn't helpful at all. All he says is, "Yeah, sounds like it's bricked, man. We might be able to put a new hard drive in it for you, but it'll cost you." The customer support line just transfers him to the sales team the second he confesses that no, he hadn't purchased the warranty when he'd bought the thing six years ago.

So basically, he's kind of fucked.

Not because he doesn't have a laptop, of course. There are computer labs all over campus, and even though it'll be a pain to use them, he'll manage. No, it's more the fact that he's been kind of an idiot about backing up his files in any kind of systematic way, which means his ongoing class projects and his taxes, and Jesus, his whole life might be bricked—

Keith doesn't remember Shiro until his phone starts ringing in the middle of Keith's trying to remember whether he's bothered to back up anything to his university drive lately or not—probably not, his crappy laptop and shitty internet means that the connection is usually too slow to make backing things up that way anything but cumbersome.

No one calls Keith unless they're trying to sell him something, so he lets the call go to voicemail. It's not until the phone starts ringing again that it actually gets his attention and he realizes that it's Shiro's name on the caller ID— shit, Shiro.

"I'm sorry," he says when he snatches up the phone and answers. "Sorry, I got wrapped up in—anyway, it's not important, give me five minutes, I'll be right down."

There's a beat of silence before Shiro says, "Is everything all right?"

Keith laughs, because it's that or do something more embarrassing. "Yeah, I'm fine, it's just my laptop that's having a bad day. You know how it goes."

"Ah," Shiro says. "I see."

"Yeah, sorry, I've been kind of wrapped up in that." Keith leaves his laptop and begins pawing through his closet with one hand—"Shit." He's just remembered the tie thing, which means pulling out his one good outfit, Christ, he hopes it still fits. Shit, he hasn't even showered yet. "Um. Do you want to come up? This is gonna take more than five minutes."

"We can reschedule if this is a bad time," Shiro offers cautiously as Keith pulls his one pair of khakis off the hanger and tosses them on the bed. "If this is just a bad night for it—"

"No, it's fine, I just—the distraction would be good," Keith says, pulling his dress shirt out. It's pretty wrinkled; he winces. "Come on up. I'm in number 6." Maybe if he hangs the shirt up in the bathroom while he's showering? It'll have to do.

Shiro hesitates, but he finally says, "Well, if you're sure…"

"Sure I'm sure, the sooner you get up here, the sooner I can hit the shower," Keith tells him, reaching around the back of the bathroom door to hang up the shirt.

Shiro laughs like he thinks that might be a joke. "I'll be right up."

Keith grunts an acknowledgment and ends the call. He has just enough time to do a quick sweep of his apartment and reassure himself that he doesn't have anything hideously embarrassing lying around before there's a knock on his door. "Right, okay," he mutters and goes to let Shiro in. "Oh my fucking God, you didn't say anything about a jacket." Because there Shiro is, all suited up. Keith has never felt as grubby in his life as he does in this moment, wearing a disreputable pair of sweatpants and a shirt that's seen better decades while Shiro stands on his doorstep looking like some kind of fashion model or something.

Shiro just smiles. "The jacket is optional, I promise. I'm just an overachiever."

Keith doesn't have any trouble believing that. He stands aside to let Shiro in and waves a hand at his desk and the only chair in the place. "Have a seat. You want a glass of water while you wait? I'll try to be quick."

"I'm fine, thank you," Shiro says politely.

Keith wonders what he's thinking as he looks around and takes in the beat-up furniture and bare walls of the apartment. It's definitely not as inviting as Shiro's house, that's for sure, but—beggars, choosers, all that shit.

Shiro doesn't give any sign of what might be going through his head as he lowers himself into the chair. "Go ahead and do what you need to do. Don't mind me."

"…right." Keith chooses to take Shiro at his word. He hears a strangled sort of sound when he turns his back on Shiro and strips down, but it's not like Shiro hasn't seen him naked before, so he ignores it and ducks into the bathroom. The hot water isn't very hot, but it makes a fair bit of steam anyway since the thermostat is turned down as low as it is. He scrubs down as fast as he can and shaves in the shower while he's at it, and hopes it's not just his imagination that some of the wrinkles in his shirt have started to relax by the time he turns the tap off. He pulls the door closed after he's dried off and brushed his teeth to trap the last of the steam.

Shiro glances up from—it's one of Keith's textbooks that he's leafing through, looking sort of faraway and nostalgic about it until he realizes he's getting an eyeful of full-frontal Keith. Then he goes pink and averts his eyes.

"You've seen all this before, you know," Keith says, amused, and digs into his dresser for socks and underwear.

"That's different." Shiro manages to maintain a certain amount of dignity, somehow, even with pink dusting his cheeks.

"Sure, sure." The underwear and undershirt help against the chill in the air once he gets them on, which is a relief. "It's safe to look now," he says as he sits on the bed to pull his socks on.

Shiro mutters something Keith doesn't quite catch and returns the textbook to the stack on the corner of the desk. "So what's the problem with your laptop?"

Keith scowls. "It's dead, that's the problem." He stands and steps into the khakis—damn it, it really has been long enough since the last time he wore them to prove that he's gotten taller. Not by much, which may be for the best, but by enough to make the damn things feel a little short.

"So what are you going to do?"

Keith snorts. "Learn to love the campus computer labs, what else?" He ducks into the bathroom for his shirt—still kind of wrinkly, but it'll have to do—and pulls it on. Yeah, the sleeves are short enough to show the bones of his wrist. Shit. "I can live with that, it's the stuff on the hard drive that pisses me off."

"No back-ups?"

"I'm not sure when the last time I did a full back-up was," Keith confesses. "Stupid, huh?"

"Pretty normal, actually." Shiro watches him tuck his shirttails in, wearing a little frown that draws a line between his eyebrows. It gets deeper when Keith locates his tie and tries to remember how ties work. (He'd meant to google it, but—dead computer.) "…can I change our plans for tonight?"

Keith stops in the middle of trying to remember how the knot goes. "What?" He's not that unpresentable, is he?

Shiro chews on his lower lip before he explains himself. "Let's go shopping."

"Shopping," Keith repeats slowly. "For…?"

Shiro's smile flashes across his face, there and gone again, like he can tell that he might be on thin ice. "For some pants and shirts that fit you right, for one." Keith's face goes hot. "But I was mostly thinking a new laptop, and maybe seeing if there's anything they might be able to pull off your hard drive for you."

Keith stares at him; Shiro meets his eyes, but he's rubbing his flesh-and-blood fingers over the joints of his prosthetic fingers. "That's a lot of money you're talking about spending." He's choosing to focus on that rather than the shaky feeling of relief that's at war with the red-hot fury of embarrassment. "A lot of money to add to my tab."

Shiro shrugs. "I have the money to spend, and I'd rather spend it where it's needed. God knows I've got all I need and most of what I want." Keith would have thought that Shiro would've sounded happier than that about being so comfortable. "As for you… your tab… you get to decide what you're comfortable with. But I've enjoyed spending time with you. I wouldn't mind if that went on a little longer."

A little, the man says. A hundred bucks a pop, and a laptop costing no less than a month's rent, plus clothes and whatever fees might go along with trying to recover his hard drive—that could take the rest of the semester to pay off. It's one thing to cover a month's rent (not to mention that no one's hiring right now, and that he's not sure he's not going to have to ask Shiro whether he's willing to extend their arrangement to cover March's rent). This is… this is something else. Something that seems more… more systematic. Permanent? Long-term, anyway.

Shiro sits quietly, letting Keith mull it over without trying to make more arguments. Keith guesses that makes it easier. Shiro's been decent to him so far and he's let Keith take the lead in what they do. He's been generous in bed, which Keith doesn't suppose he really has to be. It's just… well. This wasn't ever supposed to be anything more than a stopgap until he found another job.

So much for that.

Keith swallows his pride and looks away from Shiro. "All right. Hell. Why not?" He's not the first person to get through lean times on his back, and he won't be the last. He rakes his fingers through his wet hair. "Does that mean I can wear something that actually fits?"

Shiro's smile is brighter than Keith feels the question really deserves. "You'll probably feel more comfortable that way.

There's no denying that. Keith sheds the shirt and khakis and trades them for his cleanest pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. (He's due for a trip to the laundromat; what fun.) When he digs up a hair tie and pulls his hair back, Shiro says, "Aren't you going to dry your hair?"

"Um, no?" Keith hunts around for his boots and sits down to pull them on. "Why would I?"

"It's cold out there. You'll catch your death of a cold if you out with wet hair."

Keith pauses in the act of shoving a foot into his boot so he can stare at Shiro. " Seriously?"

For his part, Shiro doesn't seem to believe he just said that, either. "I think I was just possessed by my grandmother's ghost," he says. "And she's not even dead!"

Keith finishes pulling his boots on and shakes his head. "I think I'll live." He pulls the laptop charger out of its socket, wrapping the whole thing up and dumping it in his bag along with the laptop itself and his wallet. "All right, I guess I'm ready."

"Then let's go," Shiro says quickly, like he's afraid Keith is going to change his mind.

Keith very nearly does, more than once: first when he has to talk Shiro out of buying the most expensive laptop in the store (he wins that argument) and then when Shiro insists on adding all the upgrades to the perfectly serviceable machine they finally settle on (Keith loses that one). He nearly balks again when Shiro drags him down to the department store at the other end of the mall after that, because Shiro has very different ideas about what counts as acceptable dress clothes than Keith does.

In retrospect, Keith thinks as the sales clerk is busy taking his measurements, he doesn't know why he thought Shiro would have been willing to buy him clothes from the thrift store.

"I thought we were talking about one outfit," he says under his breath around the time the clerk is adding a third pair of slacks to the pile. "Do you have any idea how much more I could be getting for this kind of money at the thrift store?"

"Probably enough to replace your entire wardrobe," Shiro says absently as he lays two different shirts against the slacks, measuring them against some criterion that's beyond Keith's ken. "But the selection would be a lot more limited and you wouldn't be guaranteed to find what you wanted." He rejects one of the shirts, God only knows why, since they both look alike to Keith. Shiro looks up then; Keith doesn't know what his face is doing, but it makes Shiro smile. "Think of it like this. You're a junior, so you're going to need professional wear for the group projects and presentations you'll be doing in the next year."

"Stop being logical," Keith mutters, folding his arms across his chest. "It's obnoxious."

Shiro just grins and goes back to sorting through shirts, amassing a ridiculous selection before Keith's horrified gaze. It's a relief when it turns out that Shiro only wants him to pick out three or four from the stack. (He suspects that Shiro might have planned it that way from the start.)

Shiro doesn't even hesitate over paying what would be a full rent payment and a month's grocery money on clothes for Keith, on top of the new laptop and whatever the hard drive recovery is going to run them. Keith can't help brooding on that as Shiro steers them down to one of the restaurants that open up off the mall's food court.

There's a saying about gift horses, but Keith never has been any good at being wise.

"Just how rich are you?" The question comes bursting out of him while Shiro is pouring ketchup over his fries. It may startle them both; Shiro's grip must go tight on the bottle, because ketchup floods over his fries before he realizes it. "Shit!" He caps the bottle and puts it down, surveying his plate with chagrin. "Geez. It looks like I want some fries with my ketchup, huh?"

"Sorry." He hadn't meant to catch Shiro so off-guard, but—"Can you really afford to blow, what—fifteen hundred bucks? Or whatever it ends up being. Can you really just—drop that kind of money on me?"

Shiro studies his plate; after a moment, he extracts one of the fries from the puddle of ketchup, shakes some of the excess off, and shoves it into his mouth. He still isn't meeting Keith's eyes by the time he swallows it down. "Yeah. I really can." He smiles, but it's that mean, edged smile, the one he seems to turn on himself. Keith almost regrets asking. Almost. "I have… quite a bit of money. An obscene amount, really." His mouth twists around the words like they taste foul to him. "I doubt I'll even miss what I've spent tonight."

Keith watches him extract another fry and eat it. "I guess I always figured the cliché wasn't true, you know?" Shiro looks at him from beneath furrowed eyebrows. "You know, about money not being able to buy happiness."

Shiro sighs. "It depends on what you'd call happiness."

Keith does regret asking now, mostly. "It's just weird, I guess," he says after a moment. "The idea of having enough money not to notice a couple thousand bucks here or there."

"I know. It's still weird to me when I think about it." At least Shiro's smile this time isn't so mean. Also—it's still weird to him, too? Some of what Keith is thinking must be showing on his face, because Shiro snorts. "No, I didn't always have the kind of money I do now. And… I'd rather not talk about why I have it now. Please."

"I guess I've been nosy enough for one night," Keith says, which—it's an apology, and isn't.

Shiro seems to be able to tell that. He smiles briefly and picks up his burger and changes the subject. "How's your burger?"

"Pretty good," Keith says. He waits until Shiro's bitten into his own burger to add, "Could use a little ketchup, though."

He's probably lucky he doesn't end up sprayed with a mouthful of food or trying to administer the Heimlich maneuver. Shiro definitely glares at him while he's worrying his mouthful down; he levels a finger at Keith once he can manage speech again. "Not funny, punk."

"That's what you think," Keith assures him as breezily as he knows how.

It works; Shiro can't seem to keep himself from cracking a reluctant grin. "Punk," he says again. Keith thinks he might even say it fondly. "Just remember that it's not a good idea to dish it out unless you're sure you can take it."

"I can take anything you can dish out, old man," Keith says, just for the hell of it.

"I'm going to make sure you remember saying that," Shiro says.

Promises, actually, as it turns out—those words are definitely haunting Keith by the time Shiro has three fingers inside him and is fucking him with them so slowly that Keith might actually be on the verge of losing his mind from it. He grips the headboard more tightly because it's the only thing he can do—Shiro's got his knees spread wide against the mattress and a grip on Keith's hip as solid as a mountain. There's no way for Keith to even move as Shiro sinks his fingers home slowly, so very slowly that Keith could scream with wanting.

He twists his fingers and Keith catches his breath on something that's almost a sob at the way that makes pleasure sizzle up his spine and fizz between his ears. "Shiro, Shiro, please," he gasps.

Shiro draws his fingers back, crooked just enough to make Keith see stars, until he barely has his fingertips inside Keith. He rubs his thumb against Keith, stroking it over the place where he has Keith stretched wide open, and sounds no more than mildly curious when he says, "You doing okay there, buddy?"

"Just peachy." Keith grits it out, trying to push back on Shiro's fingers even though he knows it's not going to do any good. "Be even better once you get around to fucking me."

"But I am fucking you." Shiro rubs his thumb back and forth, holding him open.

Keith aches with how close that is to what he actually wants. "This isn't fucking, this is you being a fucking tease."

"Do you really think so?" Shiro begins to push his fingers back into Keith again, moving at a glacier's pace.

Keith groans with relief at the fullness of the feeling, but it's all too short-lived—Shiro changes course abruptly, sliding his fingers back out of Keith and leaving him absolutely empty. Keith whines and can't even bring himself to be ashamed of it. "Shiro, please…!"

Shiro rubs his thumb back and forth over his entrance, using not-quite-enough pressure. "You know, I think I like the way you say that."

"Oh, God," Keith breathes, because even half out of his mind and hard enough that his cock his smearing wetness across his stomach every time he shudders, he can recognize the speculative edge in Shiro's voice and guess just where Shiro might be going with this. "Shiro, please, just fuck me already—"

Shiro clicks his tongue, disapproving. "Pushy, pushy." He circles his thumb against Keith and cups his balls with his fingers. It feels good, but it's nowhere near enough, nowhere close to what Keith actually wants.

"Please—please, Shiro—"

Shiro squeezes his balls, the pressure just barely this side of actual pain. "Was there something you wanted?"

To hell with dignity. It's overrated, anyway. "Your cock," Keith says. "I want your cock so much, I want you inside me, I want to feel you filling me up, so deep I can taste it, please, just go ahead and fuck me—!"

"That's a bit more like it." Shiro presses firmly enough to sink his thumb into Keith, working it against him.

Keith groans; that's good, but it's not enough. "Please, Shiro, please, just give it to me," he babbles as Shiro flexes his thumb back and forth, working him slowly, until it feels like Keith has been reduced to nothing but aching need, every fiber of him tuned to the way Shiro is playing with him. He sobs a breath when Shiro pulls back, leaves him empty again. "God, Shiro—"

"Shh," Shiro tells him. "You're doing very well."

Keith would ask what that means, exactly, if he were in any kind of shape to do it, but he's really not.

Shiro doesn't leave him wondering for very long; for the first time since he put Keith's hands on the headboard and told him not to move them, he slides his hand away from Keith's hip, spreads him wide, and—

Keith sobs again, relieved, as Shiro pushes into him at last, sliding into him on one slow roll of his hips that has Keith flexing his fingers against the headboard with how good it is, how it feels like he can feel every millimeter of Shiro's cock as he sinks home. "Fuck, fuck," he gasps as Shiro leans over him, his own breath coming harsh in his throat. "Shiro, please—"

"Wasn't this what you were wanting?" Shiro asks, even as he starts pulling back, slow, torturously slow, holding Keith right where he is as he does it, until he's left Keith empty and aching again.

"Please, just fuck me," Keith begs. "I need you to fuck me, Shiro, please—ah—!" Shiro pushes into him again, still slow, burying himself inside Keith but only allowing him a moment to savor the heavy, satisfying feeling of being so full before drawing back again and leaving him groaning with the lack. He moves relentlessly, holds Keith for each deliberate stroke, while Keith begs him for more, for anything Shiro cares to give him, and then just begs as his world shrinks to the heat of Shiro's hands on his hips, Shiro's cock working in and out of him. It must be a thousand years later that Shiro lifts Keith's hips into the roll of his thrust, changing the angle of them so that his cock strokes over Keith's prostate at a new angle, with a different pressure.

That shift in the equilibrium he's set is all that it takes to undo Keith, pushes him over the edge, while Shiro sinks home and grinds against him. He may shout, though he doesn't know—doesn't even know whether it's pleasure he's feeling as he shudders, cock striping his chest as his body wrings tight around Shiro's cock. It must be pleasure, this release of the pitch that Shiro has so carefully wound him to. Keith sobs for breath as he shakes, barely conscious of the way Shiro is jerking against him, groaning deep in his throat before he slumps against Keith's back.

Keith groans under the weight of him and groans again when Shiro gropes for one of his hands, prying it free of the headboard. Keith allows Shiro to draw him down and into the curve of Shiro's body, still shuddering in the aftermath.

Shiro hums against his ear and wraps his arm around Keith's chest, rubbing his hand up and down his body. It feels good, solid and sure after being pushed to the edge and held there for so long. "Mmph," Keith says, since that seems to sum everything up nicely.

Shiro's chuckle stirs the air next to his ear. "Eventually you're going to figure out that I don't tend to back down from challenges."

"Who said I didn't figure that out weeks ago?" Keith counters. "You're not subtle, old man."

"Punk." Shiro bites his shoulder, playfully but also probably firmly enough to leave a mark later.

Keith considers pointing out that he kind of likes that, but lets it pass. It's not like he thinks he's any more subtle than Shiro is.

Eventually Shiro stirs and turns him loose so he can go clean up, and then returns to wipe Keith down. Keith is loath to move and sluggish to push himself up from the bed, because who wouldn't be after all that?"

Shiro takes it the wrong way. "Um—you don't have to go home yet," he says while Keith is contemplating the effort it's going to take to go from sitting to standing. Keith shoots a look at him; Shiro glances away and focuses his attention on rolling up the dirty washcloth and towel with meticulous care. "I mean—I have a spare room. I could drive you home in the morning, if you want."

Keith watches Shiro fidget with the towel, trying to decide whether Shiro is thinking about extending this week's session out for a round of morning sex—he's certainly got the standing to be that demanding of Keith's time, if he wants to be—or if this is just Shiro being nice. Or maybe disinclined to go back out? "Uh—"

Shiro sneaks a quick look at him. "You don't have to, of course. It's just—you look like you're ready to fall asleep where you sit."

He kind of is, to be honest, and he certainly doesn't have the spare brain cells to figure out what Shiro wants from him just now. "Mm, thanks, but I'll sleep better in my own bed."

If Shiro is disappointed, it doesn't show. "I understand that."

"Some other time, maybe?" Keith offers, in case Shiro does want some kind of extended session with him. "If you want to plan ahead for it." He makes himself get up and start dragging his clothes on."

"…yeah, now that you mention it, I'm not really ready for unexpected houseguests," Shiro admits. "I should probably fix that before asking people to stay the night."

Keith doesn't know how he ought to respond to that, so he lets it go by without comment. "You know you don't need to drive me home—" he tries once he's dressed, only for Shiro to cut him off.

"You've got bags to carry, remember? Plus I'm not sure you wouldn't fall asleep on the bus and miss your stop. Besides, I don't mind doing it."

"If you're sure…"

"I am," Shiro says firmly. Then he smiles, warm like sunshine. "C'mon, buddy, let's get you home."

 
 

Keith worries, some, about how easy it is to fall into a rhythm with Shiro, how readily he settles into the habit of blocking out part of his weekend to spend with Shiro, how normal it becomes to let Shiro buy him meals at expensive restaurants (and to mock Shiro over the prices, because they are ridiculous and because it makes Shiro laugh) and then go home with Shiro and let himself be fucked. Not that he has a lot of time to worry about how easily he becomes accustomed to that, since the semester is in full swing and he has a shit-ton of course work to stay on top of. It might be for the best that he only needs to worry about one job on top of all that.

(It's not, actually. Keith has to ask Shiro for his March rent money. It wipes out all the progress he's made so far towards repaying Shiro. But no one is hiring.)

Something will come along. Keith tells himself that every time an application comes back to him with a form rejected. Something will come along sooner or later. He's just gotta give it time. And in the meantime, there's Shiro.

February comes to a close and March begins with the buzz over a snowstorm, large and slow-moving, that's grinding down from the northwest and leaving in its wake buried in multiple feet of snow over a glaze of ice. Everywhere Keith turns, people are talking about the coming storm, excitedly refreshing the weather forecast and wondering how much snow they'll get and whether it'll be enough to close the campus. Opinions are divided: the student body is wildly optimistic, but Keith's supervisor at the library shakes her head. "Don't get your hopes up, guys," Keith hears her tell a pair of students at the checkout desk. "These storms always seem to miss us, and even when we do get more than a couple inches of snow, the university doesn't shut down."

Keith figures she'd know; she's worked for the university going on three decades.

Still. He eyes the sky Saturday afternoon as he waits for the bus to take him home from the shift he'd picked up. The clouds overhead are thick and dark, and the last he'd heard, the forecast was saying that the leading edge of the storm would start rolling in around eight. The forecast seemed to agree with his supervisor's assessment that the worst of the storm would route to the north of them, but even so…

He texts Shiro: Should we reschedule?

The bus arrives before the answer does, and Keith balances himself with one hand on the pole overhead to read it: We can if you want but I don't think it'll amount to much.

Shiro's lived around here longer than Keith has, and besides, Keith is looking forward to eating something that isn't the same moderately unsuccessful batch of leftovers. (God help him whenever he finally finishes paying Shiro back and won't have fancy restaurant meals to look forward to any more.) So he tells Shiro, No, it's fine, I'm willing to risk it if you are. And that's that—Keith puts his phone away and thinks about the homework he's going to do once he gets home.

The sky is spitting the occasional fleck of ice by the time they finish the dessert Shiro coaxes Keith into sharing with him and they drive back to Shiro's place. Keith pauses on the path from the car to the house and squints at the sky overhead, dimly lit as it is by the reflected light from the town itself. He can't tell how serious the storm means to be, but there's probably more than enough time for them to do what he's got in mind before the weather gets serious.

The routine is familiar by now: Keith hangs his jacket up himself while Shiro lets Potroast out to cavort around the backyard and water a tree. He heads upstairs while Shiro waits on the dog—Potroast likes to take his own sweet time about these things—and is undressed and waiting for Shiro by the time Shiro joins him. "In a hurry tonight?" Shiro asks him, amused.

"I've been thinking." Keith brings the strip of cloth out from behind his back; it had started life as a shirt for a band Keith's never heard of and had ended life sadly mangled by the machine at the laundromat. The cotton is worn soft and most of the print has long since flaked way. Keith has cut it into a long, wide strip. "I don't know if staying dressed while you fuck me is a kink of yours, but if it's not… I thought maybe I could wear this instead."

Shiro looks startled. "A blindfold?"

"Yeah, pretty much." Keith shrugs. "Up to you, really, but the shirt was ruined anyway, so it seemed like it was worth making the offer.

Shiro looks at him and looks at the makeshift blindfold. He licks his lips. "I—"

Keith lets him wrestle with himself; the offer's on the table and he doesn't really mind either way. But then, he's not the one who minds.

At last Shiro blows out a breath that makes his cheeks puff out. "Okay, sure, why not?"

"All right." Keith folds the strip of cloth over on itself and blindfolds himself. Even doubled, the cloth is thin enough that the glow of the lamp filters through, at least until Keith closes his eyes.

The floor creaks under Shiro's feet; a moment later a faint breeze wafts across Keith's face. He snorts. "Testing to see if it really works?"

"…yeah," Shiro admits. "Sorry."

"Nothing to apologize for." Keith feels his way as he unfolds his legs and stretches out; it takes a minute to get comfortable since the knot he's tied digs into the back of his head when he lies down. Well, it can't be helped. Shiro will probably have him good and distracted before too much longer.

Keith listens, but he can't hear Shiro moving, can't even hear him breathing. Huh. "You still there?"

"Oh, um. Yeah. Sorry. Got distracted."

Distracted, huh? Keith can work with that. "Yeah? See something you like?" He reaches down to cup his cock, toying with himself idly and exaggerating his sigh just a little bit as it begins to respond and fill under the stimulation.

Shiro lets out a breath of laughter. "I guess I do. Punk." He sounds better, more sure of himself, and Keith hears rustling after that, and quiet, unthinking sounds of effort to go along with them as he continues to run his fingers over his cock, coaxing his erection along.

It's not very long at all before the mattress shakes underneath him, moving with Shiro's weight, and then he feels the heat of Shiro's body moving over his, caging him against the mattress. Keith reaches up to him, laying his hands against Shiro's chest more by luck than anything else. "Ah. There you are."

Shiro's chest moves under his palms as he takes a sharp breath.

Without his eyes to go on, Keith has to rely on what he's feeling and hearing. He leaves his hands where they are, but asks, "You need to tie my hands down?" That'd be a pity; Shiro is so nicely solid, but life is full of disappointments.

"…no." Shiro's voice is unsteady. "It's just… been a while, that's all."

"Okay. I guess you know where the handcuffs are if you change your mind."

Shiro laughs, even though Keith actually does mean that, but whatever. Laughter makes him relax, means he doesn't twitch away when Keith moves a hand up Shiro's chest and follows his throat to find Shiro's face and pull him down for a kiss.

Shiro sighs against his mouth and relaxes more, getting into the spirit of things as Keith slides his hand around to the back of his head and ruffles his fingers through the close-cropped hair at his nape. It's strange, in a good way, how not having his eyes focuses his other senses, leaves him relying on the way the sounds of Shiro's breathing change the longer and deeper the kisses become, how he can still taste the whiskey-laced coffee they'd ordered to go along with their dessert on Shiro's lips and smell the cologne Shiro wears more strongly as the heat between them builds.

And there's how aware he is of texture—the sheets under him, smooth and silkily cool, Shiro's palm sliding over his chest, the slow back-and-forth as he rubs his thumb over one of Keith's nipples, and the bristly-soft feeling of Shiro's hair under his fingers. And there's the terrain of Shiro's body, already familiar in some regards—Keith already knows how sleek and powerful Shiro's build is, has put his hands all over Shiro's broad shoulders and traced them down the curve of his spine, is already familiar with how his hands fit over the tight curve of Shiro's ass. What he doesn't know is Shiro's skin.

But that's something he can fix, if Shiro will let him.

It's worth a shot, anyway. Keith spreads his fingers against Shiro's chest and feels the moment when Shiro sucks in a breath—it's the same moment that he encounters a patch of raised skin, unevenly textured compared to the smooth skin next to it. Scar tissue, of course, which is pretty much what Keith expected, given how leery Shiro has been about showing any skin. Plus there's the fact that something cost Shiro his arm.

Keith catches Shiro's lower lip between his teeth, firmly enough to catch his attention and hold it, and keeps on sliding his hand over Shiro's chest. Shiro has gone still over him, is breathing a little too fast, as Keith moves his hand over Shiro's chest (the scarring seems to get heavier on the right side of Shiro's body, which makes sense). Keith nips his lower lip. "You doing okay?"

Shiro exhales, shuddering. "Define okay."

Keith slides his hand down from Shiro's nape and follows his spine, finding more flecks of scar tissue as he goes. Some is ropey under his fingertips and some is too smooth. He can't quite picture what the shape of the injury is, can't really guess what inflicted this trauma on Shiro's body, but then, he's not sure it matters. Something happened and Shiro is fucked up from it. Keith strokes his hand over Shiro's rib cage (it feels like it's a mess, Jesus, whatever it was must have sucked) and around his back so he can lace his fingers together at the small of Shiro's back. "I dunno what okay is, really—you have to figure that one out for yourself." He raises his head, moving purely on instinct, and kisses his way from Shiro's jaw to the corner of his mouth. "If you need me to keep my hands to myself, just say the word."

Shiro lets out another of those uneven breaths as Keith kisses him again. "No, it's just—it's been a long time. A really long time."

"Okay." Keith steals another kiss as he begins to sweep his hands up Shiro's back. "Just say the word if you change your mind. "

"Right," Shiro says, which Keith figures could mean anything.

He kisses Shiro again, coaxing Shiro's mouth to open to his, and runs his hands over Shiro's skin slowly, alert for any sign that Shiro needs him to stop, and in the meantime enjoying the chance to put his hands all over Shiro's body. He's halfway expecting Shiro to grab his hands and push them away, but it doesn't happen, not even when Keith runs his hands up Shiro's body, starting at his hips and moving up his sides and over his ribs, one side mostly sleek and the other an uneven surface under his questing fingertips.

That's when he feels a hitch in Shiro's breathing. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"Hm?" Keith slides his hands around to Shiro's back and sweeps them down again, not stopping until he gets them on Shiro's ass this time. "Doesn't what bother me?"

"Don't play dumb. You know what I mean."

Huh. He's never heard that sharp tone from Shiro before. Keith considers it as he palms Shiro's ass and gradually works his hands up to his hips, feeling the first roughness under his left palm. "You mean the scars?" he guesses, only for Shiro to make an impatient sound. "You mean the scars. Right." He slides his hands over Shiro's skin, giving the question consideration since it matters to Shiro. "No. Can't say it really does. Why do you think they should?"

"They bother me." Shiro's voice is heavy, bitter.

"Still don't see why they should bother me," Keith points out, still running his hands up and down Shiro's body, in case that's going to be any good in getting Shiro to relax inside his skin. "But I guess I can pretend to be bothered, if that's what you want."

Shiro draws a breath that he hisses out through his teeth. Then he says, "Never mind, forget about it," and kisses Keith again, hot and intent, like he wants to forget the whole conversation.

Well, if that's the way he wants to play it.

Keith winds his arms around Shiro and kisses back, willing to give as good as he gets and liking the way he can feel Shiro's muscles shifting under his skin as he strokes his hands over Shiro's back. That's good, but what's even better is when Shiro finally settles against him, heavy and warm and—lagging a little behind, huh. Huh.

Keith elects not to worry about the whys and instead hooks a leg around Shiro's hip so he can rock himself up against Shiro, grinding against him while Shiro makes a low, startled sound against his mouth. That definitely helps, so Keith keeps it up and slides his hands back down to grip Shiro's ass for better purchase. "So how do you want to fuck me tonight?" he asks once Shiro is getting into the spirit of things.

Shiro doesn't hesitate on this, which is something. "Like this," he says. "I want you like this."

Keith grins up at him as well as he can when he's only guessing where Shiro's face is. "Sounds like a pretty good plan to me."

And it is.

There's an edge to everything when he can't see what Shiro is doing, can only be guided by Shiro's hands to pull up a knee, can only anticipate the moment when Shiro slides cool, slick fingers into him to work him open, unhurried but very sure. Keith groans his appreciation, bucking against the twist of Shiro's fingers inside him as pleasure flares up his spine. By the time Shiro is satisfied, Keith is tossing his head against the pillow, heedless of the knot of the blindfold where it's digging into the back of his skull. "C'mon, c'mon," he says, "Shiro, you're killing me, c'mon and fuck me already."

"You're really not any good at being patient, are you?" Shiro sounds amused, at least, and a lot less grim than before, so hey, that's good.

"I can be patient if I need to be, but I'm not seeing why I should be right now." Keith punctuates this by sliding a hand down between them to find Shiro's cock and give it a squeeze. "Stop screwing around and fuck me."

Shiro laughs, which is good, and relents, thank God. "All right, all right."

Keith listens to the crinkle of foil and plastic, biting his lip against the urge to hurry Shiro along—not least because Shiro's enough of a bastard to slow down just to spite him. Shiro groans, the sound of it low and accompanied by a wet sound as he rolls the condom down over his cock and slicks himself. It's too bad about the blindfold; that's probably an amazing sight. Maybe another time. God knows he hasn't made much of a dent in what he owes Shiro—

Shiro derails this train of thought by putting his hands on Keith's knees and pushing them up, spreading him wide open.

" Finally," Keith breathes, right before Shiro pushes into him on one long stroke that seems to go on forever, it's so slow and good. Keith groans with it, can hear Shiro groaning with him, and reaches out, trying to find Shiro over him when Shiro finally bottoms out inside him.

Shiro stays like that, still inside Keith. When Keith manages to find him, his shoulders are slick with fresh sweat under Keith's palms.

"Fuck," Keith says, digging his fingers into Shiro's skin, breathless with the way Shiro has him all but folded in half, with the heavy weight of Shiro's cock inside him. "Fuck, yes, please…"

Shiro hums to him; there's something about the sound of it that tells Keith, somehow, that Shiro is smiling.

He digs his fingers into Shiro's shoulders. "Shiro, fuck me."

Shiro laughs. God, Keith can feel the ripple of it through his entire body. "But I am fucking you." He rolls his hips just a little, like he's illustrating it for Keith, who gasps and swears because it's good but it's not enough.

"Shiro, please, move," he manages.

"All you had to do was ask." Shiro doesn't do innocence very well. Keith can't even see him right now and still doesn't buy it—but he can't think about that, not when Shiro is rocking back, slow, until he's just—barely—still inside Keith, just barely holding him open.

Keith pants for breath, open-mouthed, and makes a sound he's not at all proud of when Shiro holds there, God only knows how. "Shiro!" Shiro keeps on holding still, though Keith can hear him breathing hard, and only makes a faint noise of inquiry. "Please, keep moving."

"Now you're getting it." Shiro sounds far too satisfied, but Keith doesn't care as long as Shiro is satisfied and still rocking his hips forward again, so slowly that Keith is shaking with how much he wants to rock his hips up and have Shiro buried in him, is digging his fingers into Shiro's shoulders and gasping as heat runs through him.

Shiro grinds against him, slow and deliberate; the friction punches the breath out of Keith. Then Shiro is pulling back again, slow, fuck—!

Keith starts to lose track of things a little at that point, can't keep his thoughts together when Shiro is fucking him so slowly and every fiber of him is tuned to the steady roll of Shiro's hips and the way pleasure builds every time Shiro sinks into him, not quite enough to spill him over the edge. Keith isn't even sure what he's saying, after a while—it must be some mix of please and yes and more, mixed with Shiro's name and inarticulate cries, probably more of those than anything else as Shiro keeps fucking him, sometimes on long slow strokes that sing through Keith like a wet finger on the rim of a glass and sometimes on short, hard strokes that jab sensation straight up his spine, until Keith feels like his whole world has become nothing but Shiro's hands holding him for each driving thrust and Shiro's shoulders slick under his hands and the unbearable ache twisting him taut with how close he is—

Shiro draws a ragged breath over him. "Touch yourself," he says—commands. "I want to watch."

Keith groans, throat dry, and drops his hand to his cock, lying hard and wet against his stomach, and strokes himself once, hard—it's enough, it's too much, the punch of pleasure shakes him free of his moorings. He shouts as he comes, cock pulsing against his palm, across his stomach and chest. Shiro groans and drives against him, fast and hard. The snap of his hips keeps Keith on that edge, has his body wringing itself out around Shiro again as he gasps with it, until Shiro groans and strains against him, shaking as he follows Keith over that edge, too.

Keith moans helplessly and sprawls against the mattress, too wrecked to do anything more than lie there and pant. He grunts when Shiro releases the hold on his thighs and collapses over him, but that's the only response he can muster.

Shiro doesn't seem to be in any better condition; he barely moves as he lies against Keith, breathing hard against his ear.

They stay like that for a while; it's long enough that they've both caught their breath and the sweat has dried on their skin before a sound intrudes on Keith's attention. It's a sound like a rattle or tapping against glass, steady. Once he notices it, he thinks he must have been hearing it for a while now. "Is that… sleet?"

Shiro stirs a little and lifts his head from Keith's shoulder, to listen, maybe. "Maybe," he says after a moment. "I guess they said we might get some of that."

Keith wrinkles his nose. "Great."

"Mm." Shiro sighs and peels himself off Keith—yeah, good call. If they're going to get some weather, they need to get cleaned up so Keith can get home.

Keith stays where he is and listens to Shiro getting out bed. The floor creaks under his feet—not towards the door, but in the other direction, to the window. "Hmm."

Keith frowns and pushes himself up onto his elbows. "That's not a good sound."

"No," Shiro says after a moment. "I guess it's not. I don't think it's sleet. I think it's ice."

"Ice?" Keith reaches up to pull the blindfold off and barely remembers himself in time. "Are you sure?"

"About as sure as I can be without going out to check."

"Huh. That's… I'm thinking that's not good," Keith says, for lack of a better response. Just how badly is it icing up out there?

Shiro doesn't say anything right away; Keith can't hear him moving away from the window, either. At length, the floor creaks and Keith listens to him leaving the room.

Potroast is used to this routine by now and happily joins Keith on the bed, pushing his nose under Keith's hand in order to receive the petting he feels is his due while Keith listens to water running in the bathroom. Keith rubs Potroast's ears absently as the ice taps on the window and wonders if it's already too bad for Shiro to drive him home, bad enough for the buses to have stopped running, or—

"You're teaching my dog terrible habits," Shiro tells him. Potroast makes the bed shake with how hard he wags his tail.

After a moment, Keith feels Shiro's fingers on his face, peeling the sweaty blindfold off. He cracks his eyes open carefully; the light seems very bright after the darkness. Shiro is dressed again, which is a little disappointing if not entirely unexpected, but what he's wearing is a t-shirt and sweatpants. As he runs a wet washcloth over Keith's skin, he says, "I'm thinking you might need to spend the night. It's really coming down out there."

"That bad, huh?"

Shiro flicks a rueful smile at him. "Bad enough that I'd rather not risk it when I have a perfectly good spare room."

"I don't want to intrude," Keith says, not precisely sure what the etiquette of this situation is.

Shiro rolls his eyes and towels him off briskly. "You're not going to be intruding, except by depriving Potroast of the chance to sleep on the guest bed." He gathers up the towel and washcloth and stands. "I have some clothes you can borrow to sleep in, and if we're lucky, it'll all melt off when the sun comes up and I'll be able to get you home without the risk of crashing into a tree."

"The library would be better," Keith says after a moment. "I have to work at eleven."

"Or the library." Shiro tosses the towel into the hamper and pulls a drawer open on the dresser. He comes up with a faded black t-shirt and a pair of drawstring pants covered in cartoon dogs.

Keith looks at these when Shiro offers them to him, then looks at Shiro, because what the hell.

Shiro clears his throat. "They were a gift." Keith raises his eyebrows and doesn't take them. " And they've got a drawstring waist. Look, anything else I've got is going to fall right off you and you know it."

"I might actually prefer to go naked," Keith tells him, but he takes the clothes anyway.

Shiro rolls his eyes. "I'm going to make sure the bed is made up."

The drawstring does end up mattering; Keith is swimming in the shirt and has to cinch the pants up to keep them from falling down around the ankles. And he has to roll the damn things up to keep from tripping over them. He gathers up his own clothes and wanders down the short hallway to what he guesses must be the spare room—the door is open and the light is on, and Shiro's inside, stripping a bed. He catches sight of Keith and stops in the middle of pulling the sheets off the bed just so he can laugh. "Very fetching."

Keith gives him the finger. "I hate you and everything you stand for," he says with as much dignity as he can muster considering that he's wearing flannel pants covered in cavorting cartoon canines, rolled up several times around his ankles.

Shiro just laughs at him some more as he goes back to stripping the bed and remaking it with fresh linens. Keith stands back and doesn't try to help, since Shiro clearly doesn't deserve it.

Shiro stops snickering, mostly, by the time the bed is made. He produces a new toothbrush from a package in the bathroom, makes sure Keith knows where to find towels and other necessities, and caps it all off by asking Keith whether there's anything else he needs to be comfortable. Keith chooses not to point out that it's not quite eleven yet and that normally he doesn't go to bed before one in the morning and assures Shiro that he'll be fine. "I've spent nights in way worse conditions."

"Yes, but you don't have to," Shiro argues. Of course he does. Keith repeats, firmly, that he'll be fine.

That's when Shiro clears his throat. "I should warn you—sometimes I, ah, have nightmares. So if you hear anything, it's just me, nothing to worry about."

Keith thinks he's trying to be casual about the warning, which can't be much fun to deliver. "Okay, thanks for letting me know." Being casual right back is the least he can do.

Shiro does sort of relax at that, so clearly not making a big deal of it was the right move. "No problem. If you need anything, just help yourself, no need to ask first, okay?"

"Okay," Keith agrees.

Shiro eyes him like he maybe suspects Keith of holding out on him, and then shrugs. "Okay, I think I'm going to turn in, unless you need something…? No, okay then. Sleep well, Keith."

"You too, Shiro," Keith says, amused, and lets him have first shot at the bathroom. After that, lacking anything better to do, he brushes his own teeth and curls up in the strange bed to fall asleep to the sound of ice tapping against the window.

If Shiro makes any noises in the night, Keith doesn't hear them.

 
 

When Keith's phone dings his morning alarm at him, he wakes to a muted grey light that spills in through the window blinds and tickles at his instincts. When he crawls out of his nest of blankets and goes to check (hiking up the sleeping pants with every step), what he sees is a world blanketed in white, with more snow falling thickly from a low ceiling of dark clouds. "Huh," Keith says, looking at what he guesses is Shiro's backyard.

There's already an alert from the university on his phone indicating that the campus is closed for the day. It's just as well; Keith doesn't much like the thought of having to ask Shiro to drive him anywhere when it's snowing that hard.

There's a smell of coffee in the air, so Keith doesn't worry about making noise as he hits the bathroom—there's a damp towel hanging on the rack and a lingering hint of humidity, so Shiro must have already showered. Well, it must be easy to be a morning person if he's used to going to bed before midnight.

A hot shower seems like a good idea to Keith; he definitely feels better after scrubbing himself down, even if all he has to wear afterwards is yesterday's clothes… or maybe he doesn't have to wear those after all, because he finds another set of Shiro's clothes folded at the end of the bed after he gets out of the shower. It's still just a t-shirt and a different pair of ridiculous flannel pants (smiling rainbows, what the actual fuck, Shiro) and a bathrobe. Keith gives serious consideration to just leaving the pants, but… he doesn't actually enjoy being cold. His pride will just have to cope with the rainbows.

"Who even buys these for you?" he demands when he makes it downstairs, where Shiro is sitting with a book and a cup of coffee.

Shiro has to get the laughing out of his system before he can answer. "It's a long story," he says eventually. "If it makes you feel any better, I give him the worst novelty slippers I can find every year."

"I don't think it does." Keith plucks at one of the beaming rainbows, morose. "So, I guess campus is closed today, so I won't be needing that ride to work."

"I figured. You do realize there's already a foot of snow on the ground, don't you?"

Keith squints out the front window; he hadn't known it was a foot, but—"Sure looks that way, doesn't it?"

Shiro marks his place in the book and puts it down. "Let me get you a cup of coffee and show you what there is in the way of breakfast food."

Keith follows him into the kitchen and gladly accepts a mug of coffee. Breakfast is… a little chancier. "There are granola bars, instant oatmeal, cold cereal, and…" Shiro hesitates noticeably. "I could try scrambled eggs?"

"How do you try scrambled eggs?" Keith asks, baffled.

Shiro flushes and rumples his hair. "I… don't really cook. Um. At all."

Keith stares at him. "How do you survive?"

Shiro's flush goes darker. "I eat a lot of pre-packaged stuff. And eat out a lot."

"Good grief." Keith shakes his head and puts his coffee down. "Okay, stand back, let me see what I can come up with." He makes for the fridge while Shiro is still protesting, something something you're a guest blah blah blah. Keith ignores that and takes inventory: there are eggs and milk, some elderly onions and some less elderly peppers, cheese, and even some sliced deli ham. "You like omelets?"

"You don't have to cook," Shiro says. " Keith."

"Omelets it is," Keith decides and starts pulling ingredients out of the fridge to hand to Shiro. "Shut up already, it's the least I can do since you let me sleep over."

"I wasn't going to throw you out into the ice storm," Shiro says as Keith fills his hands with the makings of the omelet's fillings. "I mean, honestly—"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah." Keith grabs the carton of eggs and finds butter languishing in the crisper drawer and shuts the fridge. "Okay, show me to your kitchenware."

Shiro sighs and helps him unearth a skillet and cutting board and produces a knife when asked to do so. Then he stands back and watches, weirdly mournful about it, as Keith puts the skill on the stove to begin heating while he begins preparing the vegetables. "My mom is somewhere having a fit right now and she doesn't even know why." Keith casts a glance at him, eyebrows lifted, so Shiro adds, "Because I'm making a guest cook for me."

"Like hell you're making me do anything, Shirogane." Keith slices the onion along its equator and slices one of the halves from the pole, just the way Mrs. Kim had taught him to do. "I'm choosing to make myself breakfast, and to make enough to feed you while I'm at it." Peel the skin back, make parallel slices from pole to equator, turn ninety degrees and begin slicing—Shiro is edging closer. "Uh. Can I help you?"

"I can't ever get an onion diced that neatly. Where did you learn to do that?" Shiro sounds—and looks—fascinated.

"One of my foster families was big into making sure we all had life skills." Keith scrapes the diced onion out of his way and sets to work on the other quarter. "Here, wrap that other half up and put it away, I don't need it."

"I didn't realize being a chef counted as a life skill," Shiro says, obediently taking the half onion and digging around in a drawer for a plastic baggy to drop it in.

Keith rolls his eyes. "It's not, but being able to cook is. I can do laundry, balance a checkbook, and change a tire, too."

"Definitely a renaissance man." Shiro boosts himself up to sit on the counter.

It's his kitchen, so Keith figures he can do that if he really wants. "Dunno about that. I think they just wanted to be sure we weren't going to end up starving to death in our own filth." He tests the heat of the pan and throws a chunk of butter in it. As it begins to melt and sizzle, he glances at Shiro. "Really, you can't cook?"



Shiro shakes his head. "Not really. I have to be really paying attention to what I'm doing, and… well. Even then it doesn't usually go too well."

"Guess it's a good thing there are so many places in town that deliver." Keith gives the butter a swirl and dumps the onions in the pan before going back to slicing the peppers.

"Mm."

Keith doesn't know what that's supposed to mean—agreement, disagreement, something else—so he lets it be and focuses on the peppers and then the ham, pausing to stir the onions occasionally. "You got a cheese grater?" To his surprise, Shiro does, and directs him to the appropriate drawer. "Okay, why do you own a cheese grater?" Shiro buries his face in his coffee mug and mutters something about macaroni and cheese. "Huh, and how did that work out for you?"

Shiro doesn't say anything, but his ears go a little pink, which is answer enough.

Keith laughs and sets to work on grating the cheese, keeping an eye on the onions and adding the ham once they're starting to go translucent. "So when's the snow supposed to let up, anyway?"

"Um." Shiro peers into his coffee, apparently absorbed in it. "Late this evening, maybe."

Keith looks at him, then out the window over the sink to where the snow is falling steadily. "Seriously? I thought these storms were always supposed to go north or south of town."

"Nine times out of ten they do." Shiro gives him a lopsided smile. "Guess this is the tenth time."

"Shit. I'm going to get behind on my homework." Not to mention his paycheck, depending on how long they end up being snowed in, but at least he has a contingency plan for that.

Shiro tips his head to the side. "Do you have anything you can do online? I have a laptop you can borrow, if you do."

Keith has definitely learned his lesson about backing things up online. "Yeah, I've got some online assignments and some things I can get to through my school account." If nothing else, he can hammer on his capstone proposal some more, even though it's not going to be due for months yet. "I need a bowl. Two bowls." Shiro slides down from his perch and retrieves a pair of bowls for him while Keith scrapes the diced peppers into the pan and turns the heat up. He tosses the grated cheese into one of the bowls and starts cracking eggs into the other. "I'm going to need salt and pepper, too."

Shiro obediently fetches those for him. "Anything else?"

"No, I'm good for now."

Shiro hoists himself back onto the counter. Keith doesn't think that making an omelet deserves the kind of attention Shiro is giving him, but maybe the guy is just easily entertained.

He whisks the eggs up and seasons them as the peppers start shedding water, and then there's nothing to do but wait. Keith casts around for his forgotten coffee and takes a drink.

Sheer force of will keeps him from spitting it back out, because Christ, Shiro must like it brewed strong.

The look on his face must be pretty spectacular, because Shiro throws his head back and laughs, laughs like he can't help himself, laughs until he has to put his own coffee down and swipe a hand across his eyes. "Sorry, sorry," he says when he can talk again, "sorry, it's just—your face—"

" That is not coffee. That is motor oil," Keith informs him. "Jesus, you could have at least warned me."

That sets Shiro off on a fresh set of snickers, but he hops down from his seat, first to take a container of sugar down from a cabinet and then to retrieve a bottle of creamer from the fridge. "I should have remembered you have a sweet tooth," he says as he offers the latter to Keith. "Here, maybe this will help."

Keith isn't sure there's any help for his coffee, but he doctors it with an unhealthy dose of sugar and creamer anyway. "Do you voluntarily drink your coffee like that, or is it that you can't make coffee like you can't cook?" He stirs his coffee and gives it a second, cautious, sip: okay, he's rendered it drinkable, but only just.

Shiro leans against the counter and meditates on the contents of his mug. "Which came first, the chicken or the egg?"

Keith shudders. "I'm making the next pot of coffee."

Shiro smiles at him. "If you want."

Keith shakes his head and gives the pan a good stir. How on earth would Shiro survive without the money that smoothes over things like being able feed himself? It's a mystery for the ages.

Eventually the peppers finish dumping their water and take on some color, so he empties them over the cheese and wipes out the pan. He lowers the flame and tosses the cheese with the vegetables while the pan is cooling off, then throws some more butter into the pan. As he gives the eggs another stir, he says, "If you want to get some plates down, this won't be too much longer."

"Sure thing." Shiro retrieves plates and forks while Keith pours the eggs into the sizzling butter and begins shaping the omelet. Shiro moves back and forth behind him, clinking glass and rattling metal—oh, he's setting the table, because that's a thing people with houses and dining rooms do. Right.

He turns up at Keith's elbow again just as Keith is folding the eggs over the filling. "I don't know how you did that without making a mess."

"Practice." Keith pats the top of the omelet down with the spatula. "That's all there really is to it."

"That's easy for you to say." Shiro offers him the plates. "Ready to go?"

Keith gives it a minute. When he flips the omelet over, cheese begins oozing out the edges and sizzles against the skillet. "Yeah, looks like it."

He splits the omelet and scoops the halves onto the plates Shiro is holding, turns off the flame, and relieves Shiro of one of the plates. Shiro tips his head and Keith follows him through the door on the other side of the kitchen. The dining room has windows facing a neighboring house, probably—the snow's falling heavily enough that Keith can't be too sure of the details. He sets his plate down at one of the places Shiro has laid and frowns at the snow. "So… it's definitely going to stop tonight, right?"

"Let's just say that I'm glad I went ahead and got groceries Friday night."

Wow, that's… gonna be weird, Keith guesses, though Shiro doesn't seem to be too worried about having a houseguest for however long they end up being snowed in—

Shiro takes a bite of his omelet and utters a sound that's kind of obscene. At least, Keith is pretty sure he's heard Shiro make that sound in bed before. "Oh my God, this is amazing."

"It's just an omelet," Keith says, pleased by how eagerly Shiro is attacking his plate.

Shiro doesn't bother answering him; he's too busy eating. Well, all right. If conversation is off the table, he can work with that—he's pretty hungry himself, come to think of it.

Between the two of them, it doesn't take long to demolish breakfast. Shiro pushes his plate back with a happy sigh once it's clean. "That was amazing."

Keith busies himself with his coffee to keep from having to look at the absolute sincerity beating out of Shiro. Even so, his face feels warm. "I don't know why you bother with all those fancy restaurants if it's this easy to impress you."

"They're not the same thing at all," Shiro says

Keith snorts and forks up the last bite of his omelet. "Duh. Any greasy spoon could do you one of these."

"That wouldn't be the same, either."

Keith eyes him, not sure whether Shiro is teasing him now or is still in earnest. "Guess I should have just hired myself out as a personal chef," he says as he pushes his chair back and leans over to pick up the other plate.

Shiro makes a tiny face, something like a frown that's there and gone too fast for Keith to figure out. "Just what do you think you're doing?" He pulls the plate away from Keith's reach. "House rules say that the person who cooks doesn't clean up."

"…yeah, okay, not gonna fight you on that one." He tries another sip of coffee, but he's not hurting for caffeine badly enough to make it worth it, and abandons it to Shiro as he starts stacking up the dirty dishes. He wanders into the living room, at loose ends and not exactly sure how they're going to pass the time while they're snowed in. There's Shiro's offer of a laptop, sure, but there's only so much work Keith can get done without his textbooks and notebooks. And there's only so much time they'll be able to spend in bed before things start chafing.

He curls up in the corner of the couch. Potroast solves his immediate dilemma by bringing him a knotted rope toy and dropping it on the floor in front of him. He sits and thumps his tail against the floor, clearly expectant.

When Shiro comes in some time later, Keith is dragging Potroast back and forth across the slick hardwood; Potroast is wagging his tail and growling happily. "Now you've made a friend for life," Shiro says, amused.

Keith grins and gives the rope a good shake; Potroast growls and pulls on the toy. "If only it were always this easy."

"No kidding." Huh. He wouldn't have thought Shiro was the type to have trouble on that front. "Anyway, let me go find you that laptop. It'll probably take me a while to get it set up—you need anything?"

"I'm good, thanks."

"Well, feel free to ransack the house if you change your mind about that."

Shiro heads upstairs; the house creaks with his footsteps overhead, though that fades into background noises as Keith tussles with the dog for possession of the rope.

Potroast still hasn't tired of the game by the time Shiro comes back downstairs, though Keith is switching hands more and more frequently to relieve his tired arms. "I think you've definitely made a friend for life." He sets a laptop down on the coffee table; there's a sticky note on the case and a power cord to go along with it. "All right, buddy, time for a break." Shiro takes a mangled object down from a shelf; it's not until Potroast abandons the rope toy to take it from Shiro's hand that Keith recognizes it for a much-loved chew toy. He settles on the floor, toy held between his forepaws, and begins gnawing.

Shiro settles on the other end of the couch and indicates the laptop. "It needed to run some updates, but I think I took care of everything while I was setting up a login for you. You can change the password to whatever you want."

"Thanks. You really didn't have to go to all that trouble." Keith scrubs his hands against the offensively cheerful pajama pants, wiping the dog drool off them before reaching for the laptop.

Shiro shrugs and picks up his book. "It wasn't any trouble. I had it sitting around, so you might as well get some use from it." He glances out the window at the falling snow. "I'm pretty sure I won't be driving you home any time soon."

"Doesn't look like it," Keith agrees.

"Mm." Shiro's already reading again.

Keith shrugs and settles in with the laptop to get busy with his homework.

It's kind of nice, actually, to sit on Shiro's couch and work through problem sets to the sounds of Potroast's chewing and the turning of pages. It's less awkward than Keith would have expected it to be—almost comfortable. Maybe it's because all the dinners he's eaten with Shiro have worn away the unfamiliarity of spending time with other people. Or maybe it's something else—the heavy snow cutting them off from the real world, suspending all the ordinary rules. Keith decides not to worry about it and works through problem sets and his reading for two classes before he realizes he's overdue for a break, and that Shiro is watching him. "What?" Shiro's book is lying on the coffee table; Keith thinks he can vaguely recall Shiro closing it and leaning forward to put it down.

"Nothing, really." Shiro smiles. "Was just watching you work. Did you know you make faces when you're concentrating really hard?"

"…no, I can't say that I did know that." He's going to be super self-conscious about it from now on, though. Ugh.

Keith shuts the laptop and sets it down so he can stretch, catching his arm behind his head and twisting in his seat. When he relaxes again, Shiro is still watching him, but the quality of his gaze has changed—gone intent. Keith recognizes that look from prowling through parties and teasing Shiro over fancy meals.

Well. He is taking a break.

Keith leans back a bit, meeting Shiro's gaze. "See something you like?"

"You could say that." Shiro turns in his seat and crawls down the couch to where Keith has his back to the arm. He braces himself over Keith, hands planted on either side of him, caging him in. "I want—can I—?"

Keith clasps his hand on the back of Shiro's neck and leans up to kiss him. "Sure thing."

Shiro sighs against his mouth and leans into the kiss, angling his mouth to deepen it and sliding his tongue against Keith's. Keith goes along with it, stroking his thumb along the close-cropped hair at Shiro's nape. He doesn't know what Shiro has in mind, but they've got all day to get there.

It's a pleasant thought—one that doesn't seem to have occurred to Shiro, who reaches down and palms Keith through his pants. Keith closes his eyes and groans, rocking up against the weight of Shiro's hand as heat flares up his spine. Shiro draws away from his mouth; Keith cracks his eyes open again in time to see him pushing himself upright. At first he thinks that Shiro's changed his mind, or decided they should go upstairs, or something, but no—that's not it at all.

Shiro scoots back down the couch a bit and then leans down. Keith has a moment to think, confusedly, that if Shiro's coming back in for a kiss, he's misjudged the distance pretty badly. But that's not what Shiro is aiming for at all. " Shiro," he says, shocked, when Shiro hooks his fingers in the waistband of his pants and pulls them down. He catches sight of a smile before Shiro leans down and closes his mouth around the head of his cock.

The heat that's been kindling low in Keith's belly roars into a blaze so quickly that it steals his breath and leaves him reeling and dizzy as his cock goes from interested to hard in the space of what must only be a heartbeat. Keith drops his head back, groans as Shiro slides the flat of his tongue against him, and finds himself with his hands in Shiro's hair without consciously deciding to put them there.

Shiro moves, slips one arm under Keith's hips and lifts him with a thoughtless ease that makes Keith groan at the way that twists another pulse of heat through him. Shiro shrugs Keith's leg into place over his shoulder, steadying him with a hand curved around his thigh, and Jesus—Keith tries to rock his hips up, sink himself deeper into Shiro's mouth as Shiro sucks firmly enough to hollow his cheeks.

Shiro just flattens his other hand against the inside of Keith's knee, holding him in place, spread out and at his mercy.

Keith thinks he may be babbling at this point, gasping Shiro's name and swearing breathlessly as Shiro tongues the head of his cock and works his mouth down around the length of it, but he can't help it, not when he's been ambushed like this.

Shiro hums around him; Jesus, Shiro is watching him, eyes crinkled at the corners like he'd be smiling if only his lips weren't wrapped around Keith's cock. Keith groans, and as he watches, Shiro slides his mouth down his cock, lets it slide over his tongue—Keith's brain goes staticky blank when Shiro swallows him down. There's nothing between his ears but shock as Shiro hums again and his throat vibrates around the head of him, hot enough that Keith's toes curl at how good it feels. Shiro swallows around him—that's it, Keith is gone, lost to the way Shiro's throat is working around him and the pleasure that rakes him from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head, that whites out the world with how intense it is, and leaves him wrung out and breathless after Shiro lets him slip free of his mouth and sits up.

It's good that the arm of the couch is there to hold him up, because all Keith can do is sprawl against it and stare at the ceiling, still shuddering from the aftershocks. " Jesus," he says eventually, once his brain has begun to reboot itself.

It's not until Shiro sets his hand on Keith's waistband again that he can muster more than that. He lifts his head when he feels the plucking of Shiro's fingers, figuring that Shiro is ready for his turn to get off. He blinks when Shiro just pulls the pants back up so that Keith isn't hanging out there for the whole world to see. "What…?"

Shiro pats his knee; his smile is slick, plushly red. "All squared away now."

That's not what Keith means and he knows that Shiro knows it. But Shiro is retreating back to his head of the couch. He might be hard, but he's wearing too many layers for Keith to be sure about that. "What about you?"

Shiro raises his eyebrows. "What about me?"

It's like he doesn't know perfectly well that Keith will ask these things. "Didn't you want me to blow you, or let you fuck me, or…?" But then, maybe making him say it is the point.

"Nah, I'm good." Shiro shrugs. "Maybe later."

Keith eyes him, but Shiro appears to be perfectly serious. "…right." Well, it's not like this weekend isn't already wreaking havoc on his accounting. He'll figure out how to make a surprise blowjob fit into his running balance later.

Shiro just smiles and turns his attention to the window. "I wonder if it'd be better to start shoveling the walk now, and have to do it again later, or if it'd be easier to just shovel all two feet at one time?"

The sudden swerve in topics throws Keith. "What?"

Shiro waves a hand at the window and the steady fall of the snow beyond the glass. "Just trying to decide whether it's worth it to try to get ahead or not."

"I dunno. Never had to deal with this kind of snow before." Keith studies the winter scene outside. It looks awfully cold out there.

Shiro comes to a decision, or decides to act on the decision he'd already made. "Might be worth a shot. I'm going to get dressed."

It looks very cold, but Keith had a strict instructor in etiquette. "You want some help?"

"You don't have to do that," Shiro says quickly. "You're a guest."

"I don't mind." It's mostly true. "I could use the chance to stretch my legs." He sits up and swings his legs off the couch. "And I need a break before I go back to work."

"You really don't have to," Shiro tries, but he doesn't seem to be trying very hard.

"I know I don't have to. I'm still offering."

That settles that.

He's not a fan of putting on yesterday's clothes, but his jeans are probably going to be warmer than the borrowed pajama pants. Needs must, and all that. He makes it back downstairs before Shiro does and passes the time playing tug-of-war with Potroast, who has picked up that something is about to happen and is vibrating with canine anticipation.

What Keith isn't expecting is for Shiro to look him over when he comes back downstairs. "Are you going to be warm enough in that?"

"Yeah, of course," Keith says, though he's not sure that's strictly true.

Shiro frowns. "That doesn't look very warm…" He shakes his head and gestures Keith to follow him to the hall closet. "Here, try this instead." This is a coat, heavy in Keith's hands, but before Keith can object, Shiro pulls his usual coat on. So the man has multiple coats. Of course he does. It's not worth fighting when it's snowing like the end of the world, so Keith trades his jacket for the coat while Shiro continues to dig through the closet for—hats. And scarves. And—mittens. Mittens.

"My mom knits," Shiro says when Keith gives him a long, disbelieving look over the mittens. At least he has the decency to look moderately embarrassed. "She sometimes forgets I'm not five any more. They'll be warmer than gloves that don't have any fingers, though."

"Are you always this much of a mother hen?" Keith asks, since he can't really argue about the fingerless gloves. He jams the hat on his head and wraps the scarf around his throat, grimaces at the mittens, and reluctantly drags them on.

It's not until then that he realizes that Shiro hasn't answered; he glances at the man and catches a look on his face, one that's faraway and sad. Or is until Shiro catches him looking and shakes it off. "That looks much warmer. C'mon, let's go."

Keith files the moment away as another Shiro Thing and follows him outside, Potroast dancing around their feet the whole way.

Potroast zooms out the door as soon as it's open, racing out into the snow and plowing right into a drift that comes up to his chest. He stands stock still, head lifted to sniff the air and his rump shaking with how hard he's wagging his tail. Then he's off again, racing around the yard and kicking up snow with every bound.

Keith laughs at his antics; clearly he's not the only one who needed to stretch his legs. He turns to say so to Shiro, and the words die on his lips.

Shiro stands in the snow, face tipped up to the falling flakes. They're already dusting his shoulders and hat and catching in his eyelashes. Shiro is smiling at the sky, small and—is it wondering? Keith can't put a name to the softness in his expression or the way it makes something in his chest ache sharply. He's not sure he wants to be able to name it.

He drags his eyes away from Shiro and focuses on the dog instead. Potroast is trying to bite the snow as it falls—he's failing, but it doesn't seem to be bothering him.

The snowball that smacks against Keith's shoulder, exploding into a small cloud of snow, catches him entirely by surprise. He turns and catches the second snowball square in the face. He hears something over the sound of his own sputtering—Shiro's laughter.

Keith forgets about the private little smile Shiro was just wearing and about the weird ache it caused him. "You—" he starts, wiping the snow out of his face, but he has to dodge a third snowball at that point.

He stops worrying about being outraged and races to scoop up a wodge of snow instead. It's always best to respond in kind, right? Right.

Shiro laughs when Keith lobs that first hasty snowball at him, and with that, battle is joined. Shiro has the advantage of knowing the terrain under the thick blanket of snow, but Keith finds that he's faster when it comes to dodging. When it comes to aim, they're pretty evenly matched—it doesn't take long before they're both covered in a heavy layer of snow.

Potroast decides to contribute to the fun by running back and forth between the two of them as they pelt each other with snowballs. He starts leaping for the snowballs in flight, and manages to catch one out of mid-air. It bursts in his mouth, snow spraying everywhere, and Potroast lands in a snowdrift, looking so confused that Keith can't help laughing.

Shiro takes advantage of his distraction to nail him right in the ear with a snowball, because apparently he has no honor.

There's only one way to handle that: Keith fires off a flurry of snowballs as fast as he can. When Potroast makes another jump for one of them that has him sailing through the air between them, Keith uses that moment of distraction to charge Shiro. There's too much snow for him to get up a really good speed, so Shiro sees him coming. Keith still manages to get up enough momentum to knock him over when he crashes into him, which is good enough. Shiro protests—"Hey!"—which doesn't do him any good.

It just gives Keith the chance to shove a handful of snow in his open mouth. "Hah!"

It's not easy to keep himself perched on top of Shiro when Shiro starts thrashing under him, sputtering outraged laughter and trying to buck him off, but Keith figures he does pretty well until he tries to scrub another handful of snow into Shiro's hair after his hat comes off.

That's when Shiro manages to get enough leverage to pitch him off and the wrestling match really gets going.

Keith is the one who ends up with snow clumped in his hair as they wrestle, but he's also the one who manages to shove a fistful of snow down the back of Shiro's collar. Meanwhile Potroast dances around them, barking joyously and trying to join in, which keeps each of them from being able to get an upper hand on the one for too long before the dog knocks them off balance. By the time Shiro gasps, "Truce!" they're both a pair of snowy, breathless messes. Keith's nose is running from the cold and his jeans are soaked through. They've both lost their hats and Shiro's hair is plastered to his forehead.

He's also currently beneath Keith, so Keith lets himself sprawl across his chest. "Truce," he agrees, still snickering.

Potroast nudges his shoulder, hopeful, and then bounds off once he realizes the game is over.

They've wrecked a pretty good swathe of pristine snow with their battle and done an excellent job of covering themselves in snow. Shiro shifts under Keith so he can get his arm under his head—insulating it against the snow—and sighs. "Call it a draw?"

"Might as well."

It's quiet now that they're not shouting and laughing and throwing snow at each other. No, it's not just quiet—it's hushed, a velvet lack of sound. Keith sighs, breath clouding in the air—it's cold, too, now that he's still. The places where the snow's soaked through his clothes are even colder. He's about to say something about getting moving when Shiro shivers under him and says, "Okay, I think it's time to go inside and have hot chocolate now."

Keith picks himself up and looks at Shiro. "What about shoveling the walk?"

"Eh." It's the vocal equivalent to a shrug, and Shiro's smile is a shade too bland. "I'll just get out the snow blower when it stops snowing."

Keith stares at him and the smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth, and takes the only appropriate action he can: he smashes a handful of snow in Shiro's face and rolls to his feet before Shiro can retaliate. "If all you wanted was to have a snowball fight, you could have just said."

Shiro wipes the snow off his face, laughing, and takes the hand Keith stretches down to him. "Maybe, but wasn't this more fun?"

Keith braces himself, grunting as Shiro hauls himself up. "You're a sneak and a fraud, old man."

Shiro laughs some more. "Age and cunning always beat youth and beauty." He slings an arm over Keith's shoulder and whistles for the dog before pressing a quick, cold kiss against Keith's temple. Then he breaks away and digs their hats out of the snow as Potroast bounds over. "C'mon, hot chocolate before hypothermia sets in."

Keith picks his way through the snow, following him back inside, and tries to figure out why Shiro teasing him by calling him beautiful makes him feel so peculiar.

Maybe it's just the incipient hypothermia. It's not natural to be so cold, so it's probably just doing funny things to his brain.

 
 

It turns out that Shiro means it about the hot chocolate, which is actually pretty nice once Keith gets out of his cold, wet clothes (even if there's a part of his brain standing back and mocking how cliché it is to be curled up around the mug and watching the snow fall). He gets some more homework done and has a brief argument about fixing lunch when Shiro asks if he's getting hungry yet.

Shiro doesn't argue very hard, at least, and makes a much bigger deal out of grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup from a can than Keith feels they really deserve (if they're going to do cliché winter things, he reasons, there's no point in going only halfway).

By the time it's starting to get dark, whoever is in charge of these things bows to the inevitable: Keith's phone buzzes with the announcement that the university will be closed for another day—classes canceled, campus closed, etc.—and he can't say he's surprised. Every time he checks the weather forecast, the weather map shows the wide band of snow parked over the area, creeping its way over town at a snail's pace. The state has already declared an emergency and the snow isn't expected to finish moving through until sometime in the early hours of the morning. "Looks like you're going to be stuck with me for at least another night," he tells Shiro.

"No, I imagine they'll have the roads cleared off by Tuesday afternoon," Shiro says, absent, continuing to type on his own laptop.

"I meant tonight," Keith tells him.

Shiro stops typing and looks up at him. "Of course you're staying tonight. No one's going anywhere until the snow stops, not unless they have snowshoes. I doubt the roads will be passable until Tuesday morning at the earliest. That might be optimistic, depending on how prepared the city is."

Keith grimaces. "I don't like imposing like this—"

"You're not imposing. I like the company." Shiro frowns at his laptop so intently that even Keith can tell he's feeling awkward. "It's nice to have someone else around the house. Potroast isn't much of a conversationalist."

Keith looks at the red coloring the back of Shiro's neck and the tips of his ears and wonders about Shiro's life yet again. It just doesn't make sense. But he doesn't know how to ask, or even what the right question is, so he lets it go. "I'll try to earn my keep."

Shiro kind of sighs, his shoulders dropping. "You don't have to worry about that."

Before Keith can point out that he really kind of does, since it's only good manners let alone their other arrangement, Shiro's phone rings. "Sorry," he says as he shuts his laptop and reaches for it. "Gotta take this." He answers as the phone chimes again. "Hi, Mom. How are you?"

Oh. Huh. Speaking of awkward. Keith hesitates a moment and then puts the borrowed laptop aside.

"Oh, yeah, it's still snowing like crazy," Shiro says, looking his way as Keith stands. "Probably a foot already, at least—it was that deep when I was outside earlier."

Keith jerks his chin in the direction of the kitchen. Shiro raises his eyebrows and then nods. "No, Mom, I'm plenty warm. I don't think we're going to lose power—but I have a generator if that happens, so we'll be fine."

Keith makes for the kitchen before he can eavesdrop any more than he already has. Behind him, Shiro sounds amused. "Potroast loves the snow, he had a lot of fun earlier, actually—"

Keith pulls his attention away from the one-sided conversation and decides to focus on what kinds of stuff Shiro has in his pantry and what he can make from them.

At least he's not Shiro's only link to the world. There's the friend with the terrible taste in flannel pants, and the friends who named the dog, and Shiro's own family. And Professor Alforsson. So the man isn't completely isolated. That's good to know.

For someone who doesn't—can't—cook, Shiro has a pretty good supply of the basic staples, which is reassuring considering the storm that has them trapped for its duration. Keith permits himself a good rummage through Shiro's cabinets. By the time Shiro comes in a while later, he's completed his survey and is constructing a pasta bake under Potroast's close supervision. "Sorry, I didn't mean to chase you off—what's that?"

Keith crushes tomatoes against the side of the saucepan. "Dinner. And you didn't run me off. I figured it would be weird to listen in while you talked to your mom, so I left."

"Still, I didn't mean you needed to go off and start cooking."

"I chose to start cooking." Keith leaves the tomatoes to keep cooking down and checks to see if the water is boiling yet. "I figure this'll be ready by the time we start getting hungry again. And if not, it'll keep pretty well."

Shiro props himself against the counter and watches him work for a while. "I don't recall having spaghetti sauce in the house," he says eventually.

"You didn't, but you did have canned tomatoes." Keith gives them a stir. "And you've got a spice rack. It's not rocket science."

"I've studied some rocket science, and I can't say I agree."

"You've actually got a pretty good set-up." Keith watches Shiro from the corner of his eye. "You sure you can't actually cook?"

"I really can't." Shiro looks embarrassed enough that Keith thinks it's probably genuine enough. "I've tried, but it just—I don't really have the knack for it. I get the urge to try again every few months, but so far… well." He shrugs. "Maybe I'll learn something from watching you."

Huh. Well, why not? Keith points at the pan of sauce. "I chopped up the rest of that onion and threw it in the pan with some oil, just until it was starting to get soft and go translucent." He points at the empty tomato can. "Dumped those in." He turns his finger on the spice rack. "You've got a jar of mixed Italian spices there. Put a spoonful of that in and added some salt. Now it's cooking down. Voila—tomato sauce."

Shiro looks way more impressed than that really deserves. "You didn't use a recipe?" He seems to be serious.

Keith shakes his head, helpless to do otherwise. "Geez, it's a damn good thing you can afford to pay other people to cook for you," he says, not without a certain amount of fondness.

Shiro—Shiro's expression goes flat. "Yes, it is, isn't it?" He straightens up from his easy slouch and snaps his fingers at the dog. "C'mon, Potroast, time to go outside." He stalks out of the kitchen, Potroast ambling after him with some reluctance.

Okay. What the fuck just happened?

The house rattles when Shiro takes Potroast outside. It doesn't rattle again until well after the water for the noodles starts boiling and Keith dumps them in to cook. Potroast comes back to supervise the cooking, but Shiro doesn't.

Keith finishes putting the pasta bake together by himself. It was the crack about having money, obviously; the shift in Shiro's mood happened too fast for it to be anything else, but Keith has no idea why it upset him. He's probably heard Shiro make those kinds of comments about himself a dozen times.

He puts the casserole dish in the oven to bake and cleans up the cooking mess methodically, wiping down the stove and counter and scrubbing the dirtied dishes. Shiro doesn't like his money—that's been clear for a while. Keith doesn't know why he doesn't like it, can't imagine having the kind of money Shiro seems to and not being able to appreciate it. One more of those puzzling Shiro Things.

He tidies the kitchen until there's nothing left to do—no more appliances to wipe down, no more counter space to wipe clean and no more stray utensils or ingredients to put away in what he thinks is their proper locations. He even sweeps the floor for lack of any better way to occupy himself. Then he checks the oven—the sauce is beginning to bubble a little around the edges of the dish—and goes looking for Shiro.

It's full dark outside, and Keith almost misses Shiro's figure in the darkness of the living room—"Jesus," he says, startled when the shadows move and he realizes that Shiro is sitting, not on the couch, but in the arm chair, a darker shadow in the gloom. "You almost gave me a heart attack."

"…sorry." Shiro's voice is distant. "I was just thinking I ought to turn the lamp on." He doesn't do it.

Right. Okay. Keith clears his throat. "Sorry about what I said. About you being rich, I guess it was a pretty crappy joke."

"Yes." He hears Shiro take a breath and expel it again, harsh. "No. You didn't know that it was—you don't know."

Keith doesn't know anything, at least when it comes to this, but he keeps that thought to himself. "I'm still sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"No, I know that, it's just—" Shiro stops there and doesn't speak for a long time. Keith lets him be silent, even though it's crazy to stand in the dark like this, waiting on Shiro to make up his mind what he wants to say. Shiro probably won't say anything—he hasn't wanted to say anything about himself from the beginning.

And then Shiro says, "It's blood money."

Keith opens his mouth, but nothing comes out—what is a person supposed to say to that?

Shiro goes on. "It's what you get when you survive something you shouldn't have, somewhere you had no business being, doing something that shouldn't have been attempted in the first place. It's what you get for being the only person to walk away and for agreeing to keep your mouth shut about it afterwards. It's blood money."

"Jesus, Shiro." What else can he say? There's only one thing he can think of. "I'm really sorry."

Shiro is quiet; the silence stretches out between them. "You don't have to be. You didn't know."

That's not what Keith means at all. "I can still be sorry," he argues. "I didn't mean to fuck up, but I fucked up. So let me say I'm sorry for it, okay?"

"…if you insist." Some of the terrible remoteness in Shiro's voice is thawing.

"I do." Keith gives it a moment and decides it's worth adding, "I won't joke about it again."

"Thanks."

Keith fidgets as the silence falls again; what should he say now?

Before he can decide, Shiro says, "Aren't you going to ask what happened?"

That's easy enough. "No. I don't think you want me to."

The sound that drifts out of the patch of shadows where Shiro is sitting is rusty, but it counts as a sort of laugh as long as Keith isn't too fussy about it. "No, I really don't. But don't you want to know?"

"Yeah, I guess, but why should my curiosity matter more than how you feel about satisfying it does? That'd be stupid."

"…I don't suppose many people would choose to look at it that way," Shiro says, slow about it.

"Yeah, well. You know me. I'm not much good at being like most people."

"No," Shiro says. "I have to say that you aren't."

Coming from him, it sounds like a compliment. At least the darkness means that Shiro can't see whatever Keith's face is doing right now. "Yeah, it's my biggest flaw. Anyway. Shouldn't be long before dinner's ready. You hungry or you want me to just cover it up and leave it stay warm for later?"

"I guess I could eat," Shiro says. "Hang on, shield your eyes, I'm going to turn the lights on."

Keith shuts his eyes just before Shiro hits the switch on the lamp; he squints against the light when it comes on. Shiro looks tired to him, wrung out. That makes a kind of sense… and Shiro probably doesn't want to talk about it any more. "C'mon, you can set the table while I finish up."

He's seen Shiro manage better smiles, but the man gets points for trying. "Sure, sounds like a plan."

Keith isn't very surprised when Shiro breaks open a bottle of wine to go with their meal—a little worried, maybe, but not surprised. He can't deny that it helps, though. As the level of Shiro's glass drops, the tightness eases around his eyes, until he's able to laugh again without that sharp, bitter edge to it. If it works, it works.

All same, Keith nurses his own glass along, just in case, and doesn't get more than halfway through it by the time he's leaning against the counter and keeping Shiro company while he does the dishes. (If Shiro notices that his kitchen has been scrubbed down, he doesn't say anything about it.)

He's not expecting Shiro to turn from drying his hands on the dish towel to cup his face and kiss him, sudden and demanding. Keith blinks, startled by how intent Shiro's eyes are, as Shiro slides his tongue between his lips. Okay, then. Shiro had said something about later, earlier. It must be later.

He sets his wine glass down as carefully as he can when he can't see what he's doing and wraps his arms around Shiro, closing his eyes and sucking on Shiro's tongue. Shiro crowds him against the counter and drops his hands to Keith's hips, gripping them firmly enough that Keith wonders whether he'll find bruises there later. Keith's mouth feels tender by the time Shiro pulls away long enough to say, "Come upstairs with me."

"Sure thing," Keith agrees, breathless, and accompanies him up to the bedroom.

Before he can do more than reach for the hem of the borrowed t-shirt, Shiro stops him, catching his hands. "No."

Okay, then. This is new, but if it's what Shiro wants Keith is willing to let him do it—it being let Shiro draw the t-shirt over his head and shove his pants down to pool around his feet. It feels weird to let Shiro undress him without trying to return the favor, so Keith occupies himself with stealing kisses from Shiro where he can, pressing their mouths together and tasting the line of his throat while he's kicking his way free of the pants.

Shiro takes a breath then. "Lie down."

Is he asking or commanding? Keith can't decide as he does as Shiro directs, stretching out and watching Shiro—ah. Okay. It's going to be the handcuffs and the blindfold tonight. This is what he gets for having told Shiro that he'd go along with that combination so many times last night.

Keith lifts his head from the pillow, philosophical about it as Shiro wraps the makeshift blindfold around his head and ties it in place, then offers up his hands to be fastened down. This has the potential to be pretty hot, too, he supposes as he listens to the sound of Shiro shedding his closes and rummaging around some more in the bedside drawer. God knows his cock is already halfway hard just on speculation.

The mattress moves as Shiro climbs into bed; he settles astride Keith's thighs, pinning him to the bed—Christ, now Keith can't move at all.

The thought disconcerts him briefly—Shiro has him helpless now, completely at his mercy, and Keith isn't entirely sure whether he really likes that.

Shiro lays a hand on his chest. "You okay?"

Keith wets his lips. "I—think so? But probably only because this is you doing this, to be honest."

Shiro is silent for a beat longer than Keith expects. "I see." His voice is rough. "If that changes, just say so."

That's what Keith needs to hear; he relaxes. "Sure thing."

Shiro doesn't say anything else, doesn't even move right away. Keith waits, and eventually Shiro leans down and kisses him again, another of those demanding kisses, like he's determined to plunder Keith's mouth for all his secrets. He slides his hand over to thumb Keith's nipple at the same time.

Keith eases back into the mood, opening up for Shiro and kissing him until his mouth feels bruised with it, until he's breathing fast and his hips want to rock up with the way heat is knotting at the pit of his stomach. He groans Shiro's name; Shiro hushes him. "I want to do something different tonight."

"Different?" Keith repeats.

"Different." Shiro catches Keith's lower lip between his teeth before Keith can ask him to say more about what different means. The sting distracts him from the question, briefly, though he can hear the crinkle of Shiro opening up a condom over the sound of his own groan. That seems a little early—

Keith's eyes fly open behind the blindfold when Shiro takes his cock and he feels him unrolling the condom down it. " Shiro—?" That's all he can manage when Shiro's got a hand wrapped around him, is smoothing latex over his cock, fingers slick enough to glide over him easily. There's no way Shiro's about to do what Keith thinks he's about to do—except that he is, he's moving over Keith and jostling the mattress as he repositions himself over Keith's hips. Keith can't help the whine that comes out of his throat when Shiro sinks down on him, rocking himself down onto Keith's cock a little at a time. Fuck, Shiro is tight—he hasn't gotten himself ready at all, he's working himself open on Keith's cock— fuck!

Keith pants for breath, caught by the mercilessly tight grip of Shiro's body—he can't move, can't rock up into Shiro the way the tension singing though him demands, because Shiro still has him pinned against the bed, helpless under him. God, he wants to see what Shiro looks like right now, wants to know what his face looks like to go with the harsh gasps Keith can hear him making—or at the very least, he wants to be able to touch, to stroke his hands over the trembling muscles of his thighs and to wrap his fingers around Shiro's cock to play with him. God, he wants those things so badly he can taste them, so badly he whines from wanting as Shiro settles all the way against him. "Shiro, please, let me touch you, I want to feel you—"

"Some other time." Shiro rasps the words out as he grinds himself down on Keith's cock.

Keith groans, shuddering at how good that feels, and Jesus fuck, the sound Shiro makes, guttural, punches right through him, has him straining his hips up under Shiro's weight fruitlessly, trying to give Shiro more.

Shiro groans as he does and starts to move, fucking himself on Keith's cock, slow and hard. Keith groans with him, breathless and blank with how much he wants, with the hungry sounds Shiro makes as he moves, riding him— using him. Jesus, that thought should not be as overwhelmingly hot as it is. Keith groans at the twist of heat and jerks up against Shiro, straining to bury himself even a little deeper inside Shiro, and Shiro gasps, the sound ragged in his throat. "Keith," he says, rocking himself down. "God, Keith—"

Keith answers him wordlessly, heat stretching him taut under Shiro, pulling hard enough against the restraints to make his wrists ache with the effort, until he's mindless, moving against Shiro in increments as Shiro moves faster, harder, almost as jerky as the urgent noises coming out of his throat—

The sound Shiro makes when he comes is like a sob, desperate, as he comes across Keith's chest and his body works around his cock. Keith gasps, trying to buck against him as orgasm catches him, too, shredding through him with such force that his back comes off the bed, so fierce that the world outside his skin goes away entirely for a little bit.

When he comes back to himself, Shiro is on top of him, a heavy weight pinning him against the mattress, and the lamp is bright against his eyes.

That seems wrong to Keith, somehow, but dazed as he is, the reason takes time to occur to him—Oh. It's the blindfold. All the thrashing around he did while he was coming his brains out has knocked it askew. Right.

Keith squeezes his eyes shut. "Shiro." That gets him a muffled grunt and nothing more. "Shiro, the blindfold came off." That gets him another grunt, one that has a distinct edge of so the fuck what about it. "I'm all tied up, I can't fix it myself. I've got my eyes shut, but I don't know if that's enough for you to be comfortable with."

"Mmph." Shiro sighs against his shoulder, breath hot. "Just keep your eyes shut. It'll be fine."

"All right." Keith relaxes, that concern taken care of. Eventually he says, "So… those toys in the drawer aren't just for using on other people, huh?" He's been wondering about that for a while now.

"Not always." Shiro leaves it at that.

"Guess that explains why you haven't asked me to pick one out and give you a show."

Keith grins at the little shiver that runs through Shiro at that. "Jesus, Keith."

"Well, if you get bored with fucking me the old-fashioned way, you can switch things up, that'd be fine." Shiro shivers again. "Or if you get tired of me fucking you. Which—I did not see that one coming. Uh… literally, I guess."

Shiro's laugh, when it comes, is horrified. "That was terrible. You should be ashamed of yourself."

"I don't see why," Keith says as innocently as he can, and grins when that cracks Shiro up all over again.

 
 

The snow stops sometime before dawn; by the time Keith wakes up, the trailing edge of the storm has moved through, leaving the world outside brilliantly lit by sunlight reflecting off the snow. Keith peers at the trees whose branches droop with the weight of the snow on them and at the rounded shapes of the things hidden under the thick blanket of white, then shakes his head at it all, not sure the unexpected day off is really going to be worth the trouble.

Apparently he's the first one up. Potroast bounces up from his post outside Shiro's door, tail wagging furiously, and dances around Keith's feet urgently. Keith takes pity on him and goes downstairs to let him out. There's been enough additional snow overnight that all the traces of Potroast's previous odysseys have disappeared. Even the place where he and Shiro'd had their snowball fight shows as nothing more than a slight depression in the smooth drifts of snow.

Potroast has to plow his way through the drifts to relieve himself and only takes a little time to try roaming around the yard before deciding to come back inside. "Not as much fun today, is it?" Keith asks him as he towels Potroast off. Potroast whuffs at him in reply.

Keith makes free with the coffee maker without compunction, given the tarry liquid Shiro tried to pass off as coffee, and puts together a frittata with the frozen spinach he's found in Shiro's freezer. It'll keep until whenever Shiro decides to get up. Then, for lack of anything better to do, he takes his coffee and goes to log onto the borrowed laptop and get some work done.

Potroast joins him on the couch, which Keith is pretty sure isn't allowed, but he makes a comfortable weight curled up next to Keith, resting his chin on Keith's ankle, and he doesn't have the heart to tell him to get down.

Campus may be closed, but his online class doesn't care about that—the only concession is to extend the due dates for a couple of assignments in case there are students whose power or internet has gone out. A couple of his other professors seem to be of the mind that a snow storm is no reason not to keep working; they've already made adjustments to their assignments and emailed them out. Keith can't say he's surprised by that, given how demanding Professor Alforsson's classes are to begin with. She doesn't have time to waste on unexpected snow days.

Keith sips his coffee and gets to work—it'd be nice to get ahead, if he can swing it.

He doesn't pay a lot of attention to the time while he's working, though he gets up at one point to refresh his coffee and steal an apple from the bowl on the kitchen counter. He doesn't have anywhere to go or any schedule to keep; honestly, it's kind of nice, not to have to keep an eye on the clock to make sure he's not late for a bus or class or his next shift at the library. It's like a vacation, almost. (He thinks—vacations are things that happen to other people, in his experience.)

He doesn't think anything about the time, that is, until it's almost eleven and he hears movement upstairs. Potroast hears it first, actually—lifts his head off Keith's knee and whuffs before scrambling off the couch. As the dog trots upstairs, Keith hears it too—the floor creaking overhead and then the sound of water running in the bathroom. He wonders, a little, what led Shiro to sleep in so late—maybe he wore himself out the night before?

He puts the laptop down and goes to start a fresh pot of coffee and check that the frittata is still warm.

He's not at all prepared for how rough Shiro looks when he makes it downstairs, Potroast at his heels. He looks exhausted, dark shadows under his eyes and his face drawn. "Hey," Keith says, for lack of a better greeting. "There's coffee, if you want it."

"Thank you," Shiro sighs, making straight for it.

"There's breakfast, too, if you're hungry."

Shiro is too busy burying his face in his mug to answer. Keith decides that he's hungry, anyway, and puts bread in the toaster. While it's toasting, he portions out the frittata and offers it to Shiro, who accepts it with a weary smile. "What did I do to deserve you?"

How is Keith supposed to answer that—tell Shiro it's because he wasn't a creep about answering Keith's ad, or that it's because he's got a stupid amount of money that he's willing to spend on him, or that it wasn't like Keith was going to make breakfast just for himself? Yeah, none of those are good choices, so he shrugs and focuses on buttering the toast when it pops up. He drops a slice on Shiro's plate and makes for the dining room.

They don't speak again until there's nothing but crumbs on their plates and Keith is trying to decide whether he wants another cup of coffee. "Are you really not going to ask?" Shiro asks him abruptly.

It's not clear what he means by that—there are so many things about Shiro that Keith could ask about—so he raises his eyebrows. "Ask about what?"

This isn't the right answer; Shiro scowls, the knuckles of his left hand white with how he's gripping his coffee mug. "About what? For Christ's sake, what isn't there to ask about?" He waves his prosthetic hand through the air. "You don't want to know how I got this? Why I have so much money? Why I can't fuck you without my clothes on unless you're blindfolded—you don't want to know about any of that?"

Ah. Okay. "Sure. I wouldn't mind knowing, but I get the feeling that you really don't want to talk about it. I can respect that."

Shiro stares at him like he's grown a second head or turned purple or something. "That's it? It's that easy for you?"

"Easy? No, not really." Keith smiles at Shiro, or shows his teeth anyway. "When people find out you're in the system, the first thing they want to know is why you're there. The thing is, no one ever ends up in the system because of all the wonderful things that have happened to them. So if someone has shit they'd rather not talk about, I can respect that, because God knows I've got shit I'd rather not tell people about, too." He stands up while Shiro is still looking stunned. "I've got homework to work on. Excuse me."

He leaves Shiro there and goes to take out his anger on his physics homework, which is thorny enough to make a good distraction.

Shiro keeps his distance for the next little while; Keith hears him let the dog out again, and then the sound of Shiro doing the dishes. After that it's quiet for a while longer, until Shiro comes in bearing two mugs of hot chocolate. It's not the worst apology Keith has ever received.

Shiro takes the chair instead of the other end of the couch; Keith watches him stare at the mug in his hands from over the top of the laptop's screen until Shiro looks up and catches him at it. Shiro smiles then, rueful. "I did pretty much interrogate you first thing, didn't I?"

"Not as thoroughly as some people do," Keith says. He considers it. "I think I volunteered most of it myself. Easier to control that way."

Shiro nods. "Yeah. It is, isn't it?" He turns the mug in his hands, watching it. "I'm sorry if I pushed you for more than you wanted to tell me."

"You didn't, but thanks." Keith sips his hot chocolate and waits, since Shiro doesn't look like he's finished with whatever it is he wants to say.

Eventually Shiro meets his eyes again. "I had a bad night. I was hoping not to, but I didn't wear myself out enough, I guess." There's a faint red stain coloring his cheeks.

Keith hums. "I'd've worked harder on that if I'd known that was the goal."

Shiro's flush deepens as he looks aside. "Yeah… I could've said something. I'm just… most people want more, you know?" Keith nods; he does know. Shiro glances at him and then returns his stare to his mug. "Anyway. I'm sorry that I took that stuff out on you. It wasn't fair."

"Most things aren't," Keith tells him. "Don't worry about it."

Shiro looks at him, searching, and huffs a short ghost of a laugh. "I don't think I've ever met anyone quite like you before."

"Thanks," Keith says, pleased, and goes back to his homework, conscious that Shiro is watching him do it.

 
 

When he thinks about it afterwards, that conversation is the moment it all changes, though it doesn't seem all that different in the moment: he works on homework for the balance of the day and plays with the dog, makes dinner and lets Shiro take him to bed that night, where he does his level best to wear Shiro out. It seems to work; Shiro looks a lot better then next morning.

Campus is closed for the third day running, but the snow plows make it down Shiro's street early in the afternoon and the mayor announces that the snow emergency will be lifted by six o'clock—though she cautions the city to be careful anyway. The university's president says pretty much the same thing when she announces that classes will resume as normal on Wednesday.

Keith raises the question with Shiro after the man comes in from clearing a path to the garage, the drive, and the sidewalks on both sides of the street (because of course he does, though Keith has to admit that this isn't quite the feat it would have been without a snow blower). "I guess I should get home."

Shiro wrinkles his nose. "Nah, stay the night. I can drive you home in the morning so you can pick up your stuff and then drop you off on campus after that."

"You don't have to," Keith says.

Shiro only smiles at him. "I want to," he says.

Since Keith has used that argument on him several times in the past couple of days, he can't really dispute it, and so he doesn't bother trying.

"We on for Saturday night?" he asks while Shiro is waiting to turn to campus along with all the rest of town.

"Of course, unless there's something else you have going on."

"There's all those parties I'm missing out on, I guess."

Shiro laughs, as Keith meant for him to do. "I'd hate to get in the way of that."

"I'll get by somehow. Besides, Potroast might miss me."

Shiro snorts at that. "You think you're joking, but he's going to mope around for the rest of the week, you know."

Keith really doubts that, but he doesn't call Shiro on it. "You know where the math and science building is?"

"Pretty much, yeah," Shiro says, turning just before the light changes.

It's pretty nice to be chauffeured right to the steps of the math-sci building instead of having to trek from the student union's bus stop—about as nice as Keith has always suspected it to be when watching other students being dropped off. "Thanks for the ride, Shiro," he says as they roll up to the building. "I appreciate it."

"Don't mention it." Shiro smiles at him. "Have a good day—I'll see you Saturday."

"Yeah, you too, see you then." It feels like there's something missing—Keith goes with his instincts and leans across the seat to kiss Shiro, quick, before getting out of the car. "Later."

He turns away and bumps right into Professor Alforsson. Shit. "Sorry," he says, "didn't see you there."

She's not looking at him—she's looking at the steady stream of cars moving past the building, pausing to disgorge students and then moving along. Her lips are pursed just a bit. Before Keith can escape, she transfers that gaze to him. "No harm done, Mr. Kogane," she says, crisp, even as she's looking at him as though he's just presented her a knotty problem. "I'll see you in class."

"Right, yes, class," Keith says. "I'm just going that way, too. Um." This might be the longest conversation he's had with her outside the classroom.

Professor Alforsson inclines her head. "We had best be going, then."

Okay, so this is a thing Keith is doing: he is walking to class with the single most formidable professor on campus. This is a thing he is doing, and she is—asking him whether he lost power due to the storm. "No, we didn't," he says. "I mean—I was staying with someone else, we were fine, though I guess my building's power did go out."

"How fortunate that you were staying with a friend, in that case," she remarks; she gets to the door before he can and holds it for him. Was there a slight pause before she said friend? "I trust you were not too distracted to complete your homework."

There's definitely a pause before distracted; that's when Keith gets it—gets the funny look on her face—Professor Alforsson knows Shiro and probably saw him getting out of Shiro's car just now. Maybe she even saw him kissing Shiro goodbye. "Oh my fucking God," he blurts, horrified, and then claps one mittened hand over his mouth (Shiro had insisted), because now the chair of his department has God knows what kinds of ideas about his personal life and he's just sworn at her.

And she— smiles. "Oh, dear. It sounds as though your homework may have slipped your mind. You'll be lost during today's lecture—you had better stop by my office so we can review the concepts."

"I'm—that's really nice of you," Keith croaks, too stricken with horror to figure out how to refuse.

"Nonsense, it's simply part of my job," she says. "I believe you have a bit of free time directly after class, don't you? Perhaps that would be the best time to attend to this."

"Yes, ma'am," Keith says, miserable, and follows her to class feeling like he's going to his doom.

It takes every ounce of will he possesses to force himself to pay attention to her lecture when all Keith really wants to do is run screaming into the snow. As it is, he's damned glad he actually has kept up with his homework—he'd be as lost as Professor Alforsson seems to think he is otherwise. Seventy-five minutes pass far too quickly for Keith's peace of mind, and after Professor Alforsson has answered the last few questions his classmates have for her, he trudges upstairs to the departmental office with her.

He's only ever been to the department's office once, to get an authorization signed so he could register for last fall's classes, and he's never been inside Professor Alforsson's office. He'd pictured it like a principal's office—God knows he's seen his share of those—but while there is a substantial desk covered in paperwork, there aren't any chairs parked in front of it for penitent (or recalcitrant, as the case may be) students to occupy. Instead there's a pair of small couches and two chairs grouped around a low table, which Professor Alforsson gestures him to. "Make yourself comfortable. I'm going to put some coffee on—would you like a cup? I can put the kettle on if you'd rather have tea." She's suiting action to words; there's a coffee maker sitting on a cabinet, apparently ready for someone to press the start button, which she does before stowing her briefcase and hanging up her coat.

This must be a test of some kind, but Keith has no idea what the correct answer is. In the end, he decides that doomed and caffeinated is preferable to doomed without caffeine. "Coffee is fine, thank you."

He sits on the edge of one of the couches, watching her warily as she places coffee mugs on a tray and—"Do you take cream with your coffee? I have that and almond milk." She really does—she retrieves two cartons from a small refrigerator and holds them up for his inspection.

"Cream, please," Keith says, bewildered by her beaming smile and the way she says, "A coffee drinker after my own heart, splendid."

He's through the looking glass well and truly now, so Keith takes a mug from the tray she brings over once the coffee is done and doctors it to taste as she does the same. She takes one of the chairs, so he has to turn in his seat to look at her properly. She folds her fingers around her mug and inhales the steam before settling back in her chair and meeting his eyes. "If I'm not mistaken, this is the first time any of us has managed to lure you to one of our offices, Mr. Kogane."

"I—what?" Keith says, baffled.

Professor Alforsson taps her finger against her mug. "Ours is a very challenging program, as I'm sure you've noticed. Most of our students find their way to our office hours on a regular basis… but not you. It has us all a bit puzzled."

"I… I'm sorry?" Keith tries, in case an apology is what she's looking for here.

Apparently it's not; she gives him a puzzled look. "What on earth for?"

"I really wish I knew," Keith tells her.

They stare at each other for a bit, and if there's any consolation to be had, it's that Professor Alforsson seems to be as at a loss as Keith is. At length she sips her coffee and settles in her seat, making herself comfortable. "Mr. Kogane. Keith. You aren't in trouble. In fact, you're doing some fairly outstanding work in my classes and everyone else's, from what I hear."

He is? Are his professors comparing notes about him? "Okay…?"

"More than okay. As far as any of us can tell, you're hauling yourself through difficult terrain all on your own."

"No one else is going to do it for me," Keith points out, confused.

"Of course not." Professor Alforsson gives him a long, thoughtful look. "But most of our students will make use of office hours and most participate in one or more of our study groups. It's rare that anyone tries to go it completely on their own, and even more rare for them to be as successful as you have managed to be so far."

"Um. Thank you?" Maybe it's a compliment and maybe it's not, but that seems like a safe enough response.

Professor Alforsson sighs. "Is there a reason you don't take advantage of our office hours or the study groups, Keith?"

Oh, God. He is in trouble. Office hours and study groups are obligatory after all. Jesus. "I thought they were optional," he blurts. Jesus, when is he going to find time for study groups? How is he going to afford chipping in for pizza?

She gives him a long, long look; he can't even begin to guess what she's thinking. "Keith… has anyone in your family ever been to college?"

This question again. Keith stares at his blond coffee so he doesn't have to look at her expression as he explains that he doesn't have a family, so he doesn't know if any of them ever went to college. And for that matter, his work schedules have made getting to study groups pretty tricky. "And if they're not actually voluntary, why does everyone say they're voluntary?" he demands, frustrated. "How're you supposed to know these things?"

"Believe me, that's a question we all strive to answer." When he sneaks a look at her, Professor Alforsson is frowning, but not at him—her eyes are focused on some middle distance. "We have programs for our incoming first-generation students, but as I recall, you transferred in. I suppose they must have missed you."

"What programs?" Keith asks, flat. He's been to every seminar he's had to attend and jumped through all the hoops he could find, and now there's something he's missed? Awesome.

"Orientations to all the things the university takes for grated that you will know, like why it's a good idea to take advantage of all your resources—like office hours." Professor Alforsson smiles at him, and it's—apologetic? "I am very sorry, Keith. I should have followed up with you much sooner than this."

"Okay," Keith says, at a loss. "If you say so."

"I do." She sets her coffee down and produces a tablet and stylus; after a few rapid taps, she fixes a direct look on Keith. "Let's start from the beginning, shall we? What can you tell me about your plans, Keith?"

When Keith stumbles out of Professor Alforsson's ("You can call me Allura, you know," and no, he really can't) office, Keith's head is spinning from his crash course in the unspoken expectations that he will seek out his professors to answer questions and mentor him, that he will reach out to his peers to learn with them, and that none of this is any sort of imposition on his part. Professor Alforsson had been very firm on that point—"This is why we're here, Keith." He doesn't even know how she got from that to pumping him for information on his plans for next year's capstone project, or how they got from that to her asking him to show her a draft of his proposal for his capstone. But he thinks he might be pleased… and it's not until much, much later that he realizes that she never did actually ask him about Shiro.

 
 

Shiro sends him a text Saturday afternoon: hey why don't you just pack an overnight bag and I'll drop you off at work or whatever in the morning?

Keith has to admit, later that night, that it's honestly pretty nice to just pull on a pair of sweatpants after Shiro's fucked him into the mattress and just go sleep in the spare room for the night. Shiro seems to like it, too, or at least likes the way Keith makes free with the contents of the refrigerator to fix breakfast for the two of them before Shiro drives him to campus. (He doubts that it's a coincidence that he finds bacon and cheese and other omelet ingredients waiting for him, either.)

After that, it just becomes routine—pack a bag, sleep in Shiro's spare room, fix breakfast, go to work—and Keith carefully tells himself that it's more convenient than making Shiro get dressed to drive him home after they've had a round (or two) of enthusiastic sex. Any pleasure he takes in the way Shiro oohs and ahs over his cooking or the quiet companionship of their Sunday mornings is purely incidental.

Spring break rolls around, which means Keith is at loose ends for the week—he's not needed at the library and only has homework to worry about for a week. Everyone in his multivariable calc study group seems to have plans for the week that involve beaches and debauchery. "It doesn't sound like that much fun to me," he tells Shiro over dinner that Saturday.

Shiro grins. "Spoken like a man who's never been to a beach or engaged in debauchery in his life."

Keith wrinkles his nose. "They took us to a state park, once. It had a lake and we went swimming."

Shiro shakes his head. "That's not a beach, Keith. It's just not."

When he considers that memory set next to the pictures he's seen of the ocean, Keith has to admit that Shiro has a point. "Still don't see the appeal."

"So I gather." Shiro grins again. "You wanna go?"

"What?"

"To the beach. You wanna go see what all the fuss is about?" Shiro says, casual about the offer. "We could fly down and spend a few days being debauched so you can see what the appeal is."

Keith really does think about it for a second—can see a beach, and Shiro, and imagine fucking him against the backdrop of white sand and blue skies. Then his common sense prevails. "Yeah, sure—with what money?"

Shiro hesitates. "I could pay—" he tries.

Keith shakes his head. "I already owe you enough money as it is."

"I meant as a gift."

That's a hell of a gift to be offering a guy he's paying to fuck him, but Keith doesn't say it out loud. "Nah. We can manage the debauchery here just fine." Shiro looks almost disappointed, so Keith seizes on a distraction. "In fact, I was thinking—tonight, how would you like to watch me fuck myself on that one dildo you have—you know, the big one?" Shiro stops looking disappointed as his pupils dilate. "And then you can fuck me when I'm all sloppy and loose afterwards."

"Yeah." Shiro's voice has gone as dark as his eyes; he raises his hand to signal for the check without taking them off Keith. "That sounds good."

Keith congratulates himself on a successful diversion and thinks no more of it until much later, when his body is singing with the aftermath of how thoroughly it's been used and Shiro is very gently wiping him clean. "Why don't you spend the week over here?" he says, intent on the way he's dabbing a washcloth over Keith's stomach. "It would be more comfortable than your place, and I'd like the company." There's a little twist in his mouth as he adds, "It would give you some more chances to pay down your debt."

Keith doesn't have a lot of defenses when he's been so thoroughly wrecked; he's not sure he'd refuse even if he did have a brain firing on all cylinders. "Okay," he says, only he yawns part of the way through, so it comes out garbled. "Have to get some stuff from home, though."

Shiro pats his knee. "That's not a problem at all."

Shiro's house may not be the beach, but they do manage a fair bit of debauchery all the same.

By Keith's own tally, he's knocked around seven hundred bucks off what he owes Shiro by Friday night, and since he's made the last of his tuition payments for the semester, he shouldn't even have to wipe that progress out by having to ask Shiro's help to make April rent. So that's something.

Then, Saturday afternoon, Shiro speaks up pretty much out of nowhere (as far as Keith is concerned, but then, he's been in a calculus fugue for the past couple hours): "I want you to fuck me."

"Right now?" Keith says, distracted, before his brain catches up to what Shiro has said. He pulls his head out of his homework; Shiro is red across the tops of his cheeks. "I mean, okay, sure. Sounds good to me, if you'll let me finish what I'm working on first." If there's anything he's learned this week, it's that his brain generally isn't worth much after sex with Shiro.

Shiro opens his mouth and shuts it, apparently rethinking whatever it is he was going to say. He jerks his chin, a quick nod. "Yeah. Sure. I'll meet you upstairs."

"Okay," Keith says, getting back to work with a will as Shiro stands up. He's conscious, though dimly, of the sounds of Shiro moving around overhead, though it goes quiet before he finishes the last part of the final homework problem and checks over his solution. He figures Shiro might have been remaking the bed or maybe just putting some towels down (Shiro's already done two loads of laundry consisting solely of destroyed bedding this week). Then he gets upstairs and has to prevent Potroast from accompanying him into the bedroom; when he looks up, Shiro is sitting cross-legged on the bed, and he's naked.

There's plenty of light streaming in from the window, and it picks out the starburst of scars on Shiro's ribcage, the ridges and flecks of burn marks and shrapnel that fan out across his chest and crawl up the circumference of his biceps, and the way Shiro taps the fingers of his left hand against his knee, stuttering and arrhythmic, as he doesn't—quite—meet Keith's eyes.

Keith doesn't know what he ought to say to this. He's not sure there is anything he can say that won't be wrong, somehow.

Instead he smiles at Shiro as he peels out of his clothes (he's not sure Shiro sees it) and crawls across the bed to him. "Hi," he says when Shiro darts a look at him, and then he kisses Shiro, a slow kiss that he draws out as long as he can, licking his way into Shiro's mouth and stroking their tongues together as he watches Shiro from behind his eyelashes. He doesn't break the kiss until after Shiro relaxes, however marginally, and begins to lean into the movement of Keith's mouth on his.

Keith chances a kiss against the underside of Shiro's jaw, another against the spot just under his ear where he knows Shiro is sensitive, and earns the softest of gasps for his efforts. He sets his hand on Shiro's good shoulder, rubbing his thumb against the hollow over his collarbone as Shiro draws a quick breath, and closes his teeth on Shiro's earlobe at the same time.

It's a good thing that Shiro's given him so much time to map out his erogenous zones; Keith exploits that knowledge ruthlessly, biting the shell of Shiro's ear delicately until Shiro groans for him and shivers under his hand. He barely flinches when Keith slides his hand from his shoulder to his chest, tracking over solid muscle and warm skin. Keith is going to count that as a win, since he does remember how tense Shiro was when they did this the first time with the blindfold. He circles his thumb around Shiro's nipple and sucks his earlobe into his mouth at the same time, keeping it up until Shiro groans again, his name, and finally lifts a hand to curve around the back of his neck.

Keith sucks hard on the skin below his ear, hard enough that Shiro will surely have a mark there later, and flattens his hand against Shiro's chest, pressing against him until Shiro gets the idea—he goes still, then heaves a sigh, like he's reminding himself that this was his idea to begin with. He lays back and fixes his eyes on the ceiling; Keith can't help thinking that he's waiting for something. Something he doesn't expect to be pleasant.

Keith has an idea what that might be, has a couple ideas, and they both make him angry at whatever—whoever—made Shiro learn to expect such things.

There's not a whole lot he can do about that except use his anger to more productive ends. He follows Shiro down, bracing himself over him, and kisses the tense line of his mouth until it goes slack and easy again, kisses him until Shiro reaches to tangle his fingers in Keith's hair, until he's breathing faster against Keith's lips.

Keith has an idea, by then, of how he wants this to go, how he wants to ease Shiro into this. He kisses Shiro's throat, biting his way down the line of it, and kisses his chest, skimming his mouth over unmarked skin and marked skin alike, and grazes the edge of his teeth against a nipple before Shiro has had a chance to do anything more than draw another of those quick breaths. Shiro tightens his fingers in Keith's hair, uttering a strangled sound as Keith tongues his nipple, working it to a stiff peak before setting his teeth against it again. Shiro swears, profanity tumbling from his lips as Keith bites down very gently, and he doesn't seem to notice the hand Keith runs down his body except to let his thighs fall open under its direction. Keith uses his teeth to tug, very gently, and slips down the bed while Shiro's shout is still bouncing off the ceiling. He's settled between Shiro's knees before Shiro seems to realize it, and gets his mouth on him even as Shiro is lifting his head to ask, dazedly, "What are you—"

Shiro groans for Keith then, groans as Keith sucks the half-hard length of him into his mouth, and as his cock fills on Keith's tongue, he's every bit as amazing to watch as Keith has always suspected he would be.

He slides his mouth over Shiro's cock, heavy-lidded with the pleasure of feeling it going heavy on his tongue, and watches Shiro, sprawled against his bed, all the gorgeous strength of him vibrating for the way Keith is bobbing his head up and down his cock. He relaxes his jaw and slides his mouth down, humming at the way Shiro feels moving over his tongue, and keeps going when the head of him nudges the back of his throat, swallowing Shiro down.

Shiro groans, more profanity spilling out of him, but he doesn't actually clutch at Keith's hair until Keith reaches under him and presses a first slick finger into him.

Keith would grin at how good the sounds Shiro is making for him are, how satisfying it is to have Shiro's hand in his hair, sharp enough to make his eyes water a bit, but that's out of the question at the moment. Instead he swallows around Shiro again and sinks another finger into him, stroking them deep and crooking them. Shiro shouts again, arching off the bed and completely unselfconscious now, which is exactly where Keith wants him. He works his fingertips in slow circles inside Shiro until Shiro keens for him, has his hands twisted in the sheets as he shudders and tosses his head, unbelievably wanton. As Keith sinks a third finger into him, he swallows Shiro's cock down again, humming around the head of him as he curls his fingers just so—

Shiro keens again, his cock throbbing on Keith's tongue as he comes straight down his throat, body rippling around his fingers. God, Keith could probably get off on that alone, on the line of Shiro's throat as he throws his head back, the ripple of his muscles as he shudders and groans, the way his chest heaves as he subsides after the first rush of pleasure has passed. He could, probably, but Keith knows what Shiro asked for and means to provide it.

He lets Shiro slide out of his throat and laps at the head of him, soft brushes of his tongue to match the flex of his fingers as he works them inside Shiro, steady and easy, but still too much to let Shiro come back down again. Shiro groans, the sound rasping out of him. "Keith… Keith, please…"

Keith curls his fingers and feels the twitch of Shiro's cock against his tongue. "Okay," he says, reaching for the condom that was waiting along with the lube when he came upstairs to join Shiro.

Shiro spreads his legs wider for Keith and catches his bottom lip between his teeth as Keith pushes his knees up, holding them spread wide so he can press into him—Shiro groans, eyes falling shut, and Christ, it's a long, precarious moment as Keith fights not to come then and there as he sinks home inside Shiro, knowing that he's the one Shiro is moaning for, that he's the one who's put that look of open bliss on Shiro's face, is the reason Shiro's cock is lying flushed dark and wet against his stomach. "Fuck, Shiro," he breathes, " fuck."

Shiro opens his eyes and smiles at him; Keith loses his mind a little at that sight. He surges against Shiro, rocking into him hard, and Shiro cries his name, urging him on as Keith drives against him, urgent with the heat of Shiro's body around him and the hunger knotted low in his gut, urgent with the need to see Shiro come undone for him again. "Come on," he tells Shiro, hardly aware of what he's saying, "c'mon, Shiro, I want to see you, you're so good, I want to watch you again, let me see you—" He gets a hand on Shiro's cock, strokes him hard, once, twice—

Shiro comes again, with barely a sound this time, like pleasure has punched the breath out of him. Keith loses it too, his hips stuttering against Shiro's as orgasm rakes him down after Shiro, sharp-edged and brutal. He barely has the presence of mind to catch himself over Shiro afterwards, and slumps against Shiro's side with a groan to bask in the hazy glow of the afternoon sun.

He doesn't realize that he's smoothing his hand over Shiro's chest, damn near petting him, until Shiro stirs and says, voice rough, "I used to be pretty good-looking, you know."

"What do you mean, used to be?" Keith says, since he doesn't have the brain cells left to attempt to censor what comes out of his mouth.

Shiro laughs—Keith calls it a laugh, though it's really no such thing. "You mean besides the obvious?"

"What's the obvious?" Keith does have enough presence of mind left to be wary, now.

Shiro answers by flattening Keith's hand against his chest, trapping it between a ridge of scar tissue and the smooth metal of his palm.

Oh. "You know they don't bother me, don't you?"

Shiro lets out another of those not-laughs. "I know you can't afford to let them bother you." He pulls away and sits up; his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "I appreciate it all the same."

What the hell. "Are you fucking kidding me?" A few minutes ago, Keith would have said there was no way he'd be able to move for at least an hour, but there's a hot, tight energy humming under his skin that propels him upright. "Are you calling me a fucking liar, Shiro?"

"No, I—" Shiro stops as Keith gets out of bed and casts about for something to clean up with—there's Shiro's shirt, that will do nicely. "You just—don't need to flatter me, that's all. I'm not going to renege on our deal."

Keith drops the shirt back on the floor once he's done with it and goes for his clothes. "We wouldn't have a deal if I thought you were even half as repulsive as you apparently think you are, Shirogane." Underwear, jeans, shirt—right, his boots are downstairs. "And I don't lie to people. Or flatter them. Or whatever the hell it is you think I'm doing." He scowls at Shiro as he hikes his jeans up. "But I'll tell you what, self-pity doesn't look good on anyone." He pulls his t-shirt over his head; Shiro looks stunned. "Don't bother getting dressed. I'll take the bus home."

He jerks open the door to Shiro's voice saying his name and stomps past Potroast. He's got a bag in the spare room; he stuffs his clothes in it willy-nilly, angrier than he's been in a long time and not entirely sure why (that is a lie, but this isn't the time to examine it).

"Keith." Shiro is standing in the doorway, stark naked and still wearing his own jizz, probably still dripping to boot. Keith glares at him and goes back to packing. "Keith, I'm sorry."

"Whatever." He chases down one last wadded-up sock and slings the bag on his shoulder, only to find that Shiro is blocking the door, ably assisted by Potroast. "Do you mind?"

Shiro steps out of his way, which isn't quite what Keith was expecting, but he does follow him to the bathroom, which is. "No, please. I really am. I didn't mean to call you a liar—I'm just. I'm pretty messed up. And I'm sorry."

Keith scrapes his toiletries into his bag in grim silence; Shiro lets him past and follows him downstairs. Christ, he's left his books and computer and all the rest of his stuff scattered all over the place. God damn it.

Shiro keeps talking. "Like—I really did used to be hot. It wasn't even something I had to think about—if I wanted to pick someone up, I could. Matt always told me I didn't understand how hard dating could be."

Keith makes note of the name, Matt, without wanting to, and shoves papers into books at random. He'll sort them out when he gets home. "And then— this happened and—it was months before I even had a libido again and even longer than that before I was able to nerve myself up enough to try dating again, and—" Shiro's voice falters; Keith steals a glance at him and sees that he's slumped, fragile around the eyes and mouth. "The prosthesis puts a lot of people off. And if they can get past that, the scars…" Keith can guess how people might react to the scars, given how many times Shiro has fucked him while fully dressed or with him wearing a blindfold. Shiro scrubs his hand over his face. "The last time I tried a relationship, he started mentioning reconstructive surgery a couple months in. And leaving me brochures about it."

Keith has enough anger simmering in him to spare some for this. "What an asshole."

"Yeah." Shiro sighs. "So now you know why I was willing to try your ad. I figured at least I could pay someone to pretend not to be disgusted by me. I didn't think I'd find someone who actually wouldn't mind, but then, you've been surprising me from day one, so." He smiles at Keith, wan. "I guess I should've seen this coming. I'm really sorry."

"So sorry you've got a taste for jerks and got me instead," Keith drawls, but his heart isn't really in it any more.

"I'm not," Shiro said. "Not about getting you. Pretty much the opposite, really."

Damn it. Of course he'd have to go and say something like that. Keith heaves a sigh and drops his half-filled bag on the couch. "I'm still mad at you."

"That's… that's fair." Shiro clears his throat. "Is there anything I can do to make it up to you?"

"Mm." He's really only tabling this for later, when he can think it through and decide what he really wants to do about all this. But Shiro doesn't need to know about that, not right now. "I guess I'll let you buy me dinner."

Shiro's smile breaks across his face like the dawn. "I can do that, absolutely."

"Well, good." Keith looks him up and down. "You might want to put some pants on first, though."

Shiro finally realizes that he's naked and covered in jizz; he goes scarlet, but laughs. "Uh—yeah. Yeah, that would probably be a good idea, wouldn't it?"

"Probably," Keith agrees, and bends to start pulling his stuff back out of his bag as Shiro goes to attend to that.

 
 

Monday morning, Keith stares at his tally while drinking his coffee, but the numbers don't change: he's making rent and keeping the lights on, but only just. There isn't anything he can cut out of his budget that he hasn't already cut. He's maxed out his hours at the library and it's not quite time yet for the bars and restaurants and stores to start hiring for the summer, or so he hears from the people in his study group who've stayed the summers to work. So that's a bust.

On the other hand, he's not the only one who's working to put himself through school, and he has a lead, though it's not exactly ideal—Hunk works in the warehouse for the shipping company in town, and has said they're always hurting for people willing to work the third shift.

Keith chews on his lip. This is a hell of a time to pick up another job, but on the other hand, it'll be four months, at least, to pay Shiro back at his current pace. And that, as far as Keith is concerned, is four months too long now that things have gone and gotten complicated.

(Okay, they've been complicated for a while, but now he can't ignore it any more, not when it had stung to be accused of only being in it for the money.)

There's nothing for it. Keith bows to the inevitable and pulls up the application page to start filling in his details. If there's one thing he's sure of now, it's that he and Shiro can't go on like they have been for very much longer.

 
 

The third time Keith breaks off in the middle of a sentence to yawn, Shiro frowns at him. "Are you okay?"

"Huh? Yeah, I'm fine."

The reassurance doesn't work; Shiro continues to frown at him. "Are you getting enough rest?"

Is he getting enough rest, the man asks, as though the dark circles under his eyes aren't a clear sign that he isn't. "Finals are coming," Keith point out, which is true enough. They're only about three weeks away now, and God knows he's got plenty to do between now and then.

"All the studying in the world won't help you if you're too tired to focus on the exam."

What Shiro says is true, but Keith shrugs. "I'll be fine, don't worry." He's just gotten a little out of practice at juggling school, a work-study job, and a second job. He's never had to balance a social life on top of those, but the knack of it is coming back to him.

Besides, it's only for the short term—that's what he tells himself as he notes Shiro's worried gaze. Classes will be over in a month, his work-study job goes on hiatus at the same time, and things will get a lot easier then. He can definitely make it a few weeks on short sleep in the meantime, especially with the goal he has to motivate him.

But he's had enough of Shiro worrying over him. Keith changes the subject. "So I've been wondering… those restraints." He leans forward. "Do you just like using them on other people, or…?"

The diversion is more successful than he dared hope it would be. Shiro licks his lips. "Not just on other people, no."

Keith grins at him. "Interesting, old man. Very interesting. I think we need to explore that some more."

"Yeah." Shiro clears his throat. "Yeah, I think we should."

(Shiro does look very good when he's got his hands fastened over his head while Keith rides him—very good indeed, and best of all, he forgets all about asking Keith how much rest he's been getting lately—Keith makes damn sure of that.)

 
 

"Mr. Kogane," Professor Alforsson says at the end of class. "A word, if you please."

"Sure," Keith says after a beat, a bit confused and a bit more put out—he was going to work on his M349 homework in the gap between classes, and perhaps catch a catnap too. So much for that. "No problem."

He finishes packing his bag and hangs back as the rest of the class filters out, but she doesn't say whatever it is there—just waves him out of the classroom ahead of her. Keith suppresses a sigh and follows her upstairs to her office. At least this time he isn't petrified of being in some kind of trouble—he doesn't think he's in trouble. Is he in trouble?

Professor Alforsson puts on a pot of coffee and pours a cup for him before taking a seat. "You're a work-study student, if I'm not mistaken, aren't you?"

"Yeah?" Keith adds sugar and cream to his coffee; at least the caffeine makes up for the lost study time. "I mean, yes, I am. I work at the library."

She nods. "I thought so. But you aren't taking classes over the summer, so that will conclude at the end of the semester."

"Yeah, I'd take classes if I could, but my scholarship doesn't cover the summer session." Keith shrugs. "I'll just work more hours at my other job."

Professor Alforsson raises her eyebrow. "Your… other job?"

"At the shipping depot. It's third shift, but the pay is good." Especially the overtime, when he can make that work.

"Ah. I had wondered if I'd lost my talent for keeping a class's attention." Keith blinks and she smiles. "You've taken to yawning a great deal lately."

Keith ducks his head, face going hot. "Sorry. I've only been working it a couple of weeks. I'm still adjusting."

"Don't apologize. You're carrying eighteen credit hours, working two jobs, and maintaining an A average." Professor Alforsson is at her briskest. "You're doing quite well, which is why I wanted to speak to you. One of my graduate assistants has had a family emergency, so I have an opening in my lab over the summer. I wanted to offer it to you. It comes with a stipend and would be full-time." She produces a sheet of paper and passes it to him. "This is the standard offer letter. Would this be something you'd be willing to consider?"

Keith stares at her, but Professor Alforsson seems to be perfectly serious. He looks at the letter and chokes. "This is the same amount of money I'm making in the warehouse."

She sighs. "I know, I'm sorry. I've been working on getting better pay for our student works, but…" She turns her palms up. "It's an uphill battle."

"No, you don't understand. This is what I make on third shift in the warehouse, but I'd get it and get to work in your lab." Keith is dizzy. "People would pay for that, and you're offering it to me?"

Professor Alforsson's expression softens. "I see. Yes, I am. Are you interested?"

" Yes," Keith breathes. " God, yes."

She smiles. "Very good. I'm glad to hear it."

The balance of Keith's break between classes passes in a blur of paperwork and disbelief, leaving Keith's head spinning at his good fortune.

 
 

The Sunday of finals week, Keith wakes up in a strange bed, staring at a strange ceiling. "What…?" he slurs, blearing at the ceiling—no, he knows that ceiling. It's Shiro's bedroom ceiling, and he's in Shiro's bed. Why is he in Shiro's bed?

Shiro has a hand on his shoulder. "It's time to get up," he says, but he looks worried when Keith focuses on him. "You have work, remember?"

Ugh, work. Keith claws his way upright, muscles creaking as he does. "Why am I in your bed?" He remembers following Shiro upstairs, remembers Shiro pressing him back against the pillows and kissing him until he was senseless from it, and the way he'd wrapped his legs around Shiro and groaned as Shiro moved inside him, deliciously slow, pleasure building on pleasure until he'd dissolved in it, but after that—nothing.

"You passed out on me." Shiro takes a seat at the foot of his bed. He's still frowning, looking concerned. "You've been so tired lately, I didn't have the heart to wake you up."

"Wait, where did you sleep?"

Shiro shrugs that off, unimportant. "I took your bed, it's fine. Keith—" He bites his lip and pins an earnest stare on him, one that makes Keith want to squirm. "Is everything okay? Every time I see you these days, the circles under your eyes are worse."

"My last final is on Thursday. Things will ease up then."

The reassurance doesn't work as well as it has in the past; Keith supposes he's used it a lot in the past month or so. Too bad, since it happens to be true. He just needs to work a few more shifts… Shiro's talking again. "Sorry, what was that?"

"I said that I'm worried about you." Shiro plucks at the blanket, fidgeting with it. "Look—call in today and go back to sleep. I'll make up the difference in your paycheck."

God, it's tempting—so fucking tempting. Keith aches all over with how tired he is, and it'd be so easy to lie back down and pull the blankets over his head. What's another hundred bucks…?

It's another shift at the shipping depot, is what it is. "No, Shiro. I'll be fine. It's only another few days."

Shiro closes his hand on the blanket. "Let me make it a gift, please. Something to celebrate the end of the school year. You need to rest before your exams."

"No, Shiro." Keith softens it as much as he can by reaching for his hand and lacing their fingers together. "Just plan on taking me out to the most ridiculously overpriced restaurant you can find afterwards."

Shiro smiles, sort of. "You have to promise not to make fun of it, though."

"Making fun of it is half the joy and you know it." Keith squeezes his hand. "Now let me up. I've got to get showered."

Four more days, he thinks as he carries the tight, worried line of Shiro's mouth into the shower. Four more days.

Four days become three, become two, dwindle to one, though they're mostly a blur for Keith, consisting of the taste of coffee on his tongue and the ache of exhaustion in his bones as he solves problems on exams and renews library loans for graduate students who look as tired as he feels. Keith finishes his last exam, naps until it's time to catch the bus for his shift at the shipping depot, comes home and sleeps until it's time to take the bus back to campus for his final library shift of the semester, takes the bus back to the shipping depot for another shift, this one with overtime, and collapses into bed afterwards to sleep through the day.

Somewhere in that period of time, two paychecks land in his bank account. When he checks it, sitting in his underwear after his shower, the balance has crossed the threshold he set five—six?—weeks ago.

Exhausted as he is, Keith still manages to smile. Finally.

…God, he hopes he hasn't been misreading Shiro.

Keith shakes the thought off. He doesn't think he has, but if he's wrong about that, best to find out now, before he gets in any deeper.

He shakes his head over that thought and shuts his laptop; he only has a few minutes to get dressed before Shiro shows up.

 
 

"What the hell, Keith, I thought you said things were going to get better after Thursday!"

Keith fastens his seatbelt and gives Shiro a weary grin. "Hi, it's nice to see you, too. And they have."

Shiro snorts. "How much better can they be? You look like death." It's not a joke, Keith knows that, but something about that strikes him as being terribly funny. He laughs, laughs until his sides hurt, and doesn't stop until he's wheezing and wet-eyed, conscious that Shiro is staring at him. "Are—are you okay?"

"I'm fine," Keith says—to hell with it, he was going to wait till later, but Shiro looks like he's about to vibrate out of his skin with worry. He digs a hand down into his pocket and passes the folded envelope to him. "Here, this is for you."

"What is it?" Shiro asks, already sliding his thumb under the flap and breaking the seal.

Keith slouches in his seat and waits—watches as Shiro pulls the paper out and unfolds it, catching the check that flutters out of it as he does. He goes still when he registers what he's holding—a check for $1,550.00, made out to Takashi Shirogane, with an itemized list of everything Shiro has helped him pay for balanced against every orgasm Shiro's had at Keith's hands (and mouth, and ass, and cock…) since January. The two numbers balance out.

"What—?" Shiro looks at him, forehead creased. "Keith—"

"It's the balance of what I owe you."

Shiro looks at the check again; when he raises his eyes, they look hurt. "If you're tired of our arrangement, you could have just said so—"

Honestly, Keith thinks, he probably should have expected this. "Don't be an idiot." That shuts Shiro up. "I'm not tired of our arrangement. Well, I am, but not because I'm tired of you. Jesus. I'm tired of pretending it's about the money, though, so there." He gestures at the check. "Now it isn't."

Shiro looks from him to the check again; the muscles in his throat move as he swallows. "It isn't?"

"Hasn't been for a while now, really, but now it's official." Jesus, has he been misreading Shiro? "But I guess if you're tired of this—"

He doesn't even get to finish the sentence. "No!" Shiro says, sharp, before catching himself. "No," he says again, gently. "I'm not—no." He bites his lip and looks at Keith, sidelong. "Really, it's… even without the money, you still…"

Oh, thank God, he's just looking at Shiro's whole… thing… and not something else. That's something Keith can deal with. "Shiro, buddy, let me tell you—there's no way I'd have put myself through the past few weeks if it weren't for the fact that I really wanted to be with you free and clear, okay?"

Shiro pauses at that. "Just what have you been doing?"

"Got a third shift job at the shipping depot," Keith explains. He jerks his chin at the check in Shiro's fingers. "That's where that came from."

"You've been—" Shiro stops, as appalled as Keith has ever seen him. " Keith."

"Worth it," Keith says. "Totally worth it."

Color creeps up the back of Shiro's neck. "Yeah?"

It absolutely is worth every lost hour of sleep, just for the soft, wondering edge of Shiro's smile. "Yeah," Keith tells him. "It really is." He reaches over and curls his hand around the back of Shiro's neck, pulling him closer so he can kiss him, like a promise. "Now. I think you were going to take me out for a ridiculously overpriced dinner to celebrate the end of the semester, right?"

"I believe that was the agreement," Shiro says, grave, as he carefully folds up the check and paper and tucks them away. He steals another glance at Keith, almost shy. "And maybe afterwards, you could go home with me?"

"I'm looking forward to it," Keith tells him. "Let's get to it, huh?"

"Let's," Shiro agrees, but before he puts the car into gear, he leans across the seat to kiss Keith again.

Later—much later—Keith drowses against Shiro's chest, forming a vague intention of getting up so he can go get some actual sleep. The way Shiro is stroking his hair is making it awfully difficult to muster any resolve, though. "You know you didn't have to pay back a single dime, right?"

Maybe that's true and maybe it isn't—Keith's been on his own for long enough that he doesn't know whether he'd be able to accept that or not. "I wanted to, though." It's not just about him, either. "Wanted you to know I'm choosing this. Choosing you. Not sticking around out of any, I dunno. Obligation."

"Oh." Shiro's chest rises and falls under Keith's cheek, the rhythm just a little uneven. "I… hadn't thought of it that way."

"Didn't think you had." Keith yawns hard enough to make his jaw ache. "Okay, I have to get up, or I'm going to fall asleep right here."

Shiro slides his hand through Keith's hair and curves it around the point of his shoulder. "You'd be welcome, if you did."

"Mm. Okay." He's tired enough to sleep through anything, including a bad night if Shiro's going to have one. "Thanks." Keith shuts his eyes, already drifting, and never can decide afterwards whether he dreamed Shiro's quiet no, thank you or not.

It doesn't really matter, though—even if it was something he dreamed, it's just as clear in the way Shiro is there, watching him and smiling, when he wakes up again. And that, as far as Keith is concerned, is all that really matters.